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51 


THE    LURE 
OF  THE   GARDEN 


ododendrom. 
i<£ 

TVofcssor  Charles  S.  Sar&Qift,  BrooWina,Mass. 


"byHotart  Nichols. 


THE  LURE 
OF  THE  GARDEN 


HILDEGARDE    HAWTHORNE 


ILLUSTRATED  IN  FULL  COLOR  BY 
MAXFIELD  PARRISH,  JULES  GUfiRIN, 
SIGISMOND  DE  IVANOWSKI,  ANNA 
WHELAN  BETTS,  AND  OTHERS, 
AND  WITH  PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK  :  THE  CENTURY  CO.  :  IQI  I 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,  October,  igi i 


5B 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

WHO   LOVES   ALL  GREEN   GROWTH,  AND   HAS   PLANTED   MANY  A   GARDEN 
I    INSCRIBE  THIS   BOOK   OF   MINE 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION 


PACK 


I 

OUR   GRANDMOTHER'S    GARDENS 21 

II 
WASHINGTON'S    GARDEN 45 

III 
CHILDHOOD    IN   THE    GARDEN 63 

IV 
THE    SOCIAL   SIDE    OF  GARDENS 85 

V 
GARDENS   AND    GOSSIPS 107 

VI 
GARDENS   OF  SOME  WELL-KNOWN   PEOPLE  ...      125 

VII 
SOME    GARDEN    VICES 145 

vii 


CONTENTS 

viii 

GARDENS   IN   LITERATURE 165 

IX 
GARDEN   GATES 191 

X 
GARDENS   PUBLIC   AND    BOTANICAL 211 

XI 
WINTER  WONDER 235 

XII 
POSSIBILITIES   OF   THE   FUTURE  ....  247 


Vlll 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Rhododendrons  from  the  Himalayas" Frontispiece 

Wistaria  on  an  Old  Colonial  House 4 

The  Entrance  to  an  Italian  Garden 9 

Foxglove  and  Roses  and  Canterbury-Bells 14 

"Along  the  Paths  Walked  the  Great-Grandmother"     ....  20 

Climbing-Roses  Over  a  Porch 25 

Square  Terraces  Step  Downward  from  the  House 29 

"Herself  as  Lovely  as  Any  Flower  that  Grew" 33 

A  Charleston  Garden 38 

Nelly  Custis  in  the  Mount  Vernon  Garden 44 

The  Old  Watchman  on  His  Rounds  Again 49 

The  Long,  Straight  Rows  of  Flowers 53 

"How  Well  a  Child  Becomes  the  Garden" 62 

A  Pathway  Bordered  with  Box 66 

A  Garden  Wall 70 

"  Let  Them  Live  Close  to  Its  Flowers  " 73 

A  Place  to  Dream  and  Linger  in 77 

"  Before  the  Time  of  Formal  Gardens  " 84 

A  Visit  on  the  Lawn  in  the  Olden  Time 94 

Through  Green  Arbors 99 

"  Gossip  is  Not  Necessarily  Unkind  " 106 

A  Garden  Path 114 

ix 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


I'AGE 


The  Path  by  the  Long  Pond i  i  7 

Vistas  of  White  and  Green 124 

Where  House  and  Garden  Meet 127 

Entrance  to  a  Cornish  Garden 132 

The  Poplars  at  Augustus  Saint- Gaudens's  House,  Cornish     .      .  137 

"The  Mildest  and  Best- Behaved  of  Gardens" 144 

A  Pergola 147 

Grass-Bordered  Beds 152 

A  July  Evening     .           156 

"  Within  High  Walls  and  Jealous  Hedges "     .      .      .      .      .      .      .  164 

Terraces  and  Pools  in  a  Persian  Garden 167 

At  the  End  of  the  Terrace- Walk 172 

A  Place  of  Continual  Enjoyment 177 

"The  Golden  Dream  Beyond" 183 

"A  Hint  to  the  Imagination  of  Each  Passer-by" 190 

Entrance  to  a  Garden  Through  an  Avenue  of  Pines       .      .      .      .  194 

Cloisters,  Many-Arched 203 

"  In  the  Garden  a  Breathing  Fragrance  " 210 

Pools  and  Silences 213 

Where  the  Shrubbery  Reaches  High 220 

The  Enchantment  of  Green 225 

A  Winter  Bouquet 234 

"For  a  Garden  in  Winter  is  a  Lovely  Thing " 239 

"  This  Delicious  Solitude  " 246 

Lotus  and  Water-Lilies  in  a  Japanese  Garden 252 

Pool  and  Pergola 255 

X 


THE  LURE  OF  THE 
GARDEN 


GARDEN  SONG 

BY  AUSTIN  DOBSON 

Here  in  this  sequestered  close 
Bloom  the  hyacinth  and  rose, 
Here  beside  the  modest  stock 
Flaunts  the  flaring  hollyhock ; 
Here,  without  a  pang,  one  sees 
Ranks,  conditions  and  degrees. 

All  the  seasons  run  their  race 
In  this  quiet  resting-place  ; 
Peach  and  apricot  and  fig 
Here  will  ripen  and  grow  big ; 
Here  is  store  and  overplus, — 
More  had  not  Alcinous. 

Here,  in  alleys  cool  and  green, 
Far  ahead  the  thrush  is  seen ; 
Here  along  the  southern  wall 
Keeps  the  bee  his  festival ; 
All  is  quiet  else  —  afar 
Sounds  of  toil  and  turmoil  are. 

Here  be  shadows  large  and  long ; 
Here  be  spaces  meet  for  song ; 
Grant,  O  garden-god,  that  I, 
Now  that  none  profane  is  nigh, — 
Now  that  mood  and  moment  please, — 
Find  the  fair  Pierides. 


WISTARIA  ON  AN  OLD  COLONIAL  HOUSE 


THE  LURE  OF  THE 
GARDEN 

INTRODUCTION 

IN  spite  of  its  material  of  green  leaf  and  fragrant 
flower,  a  garden  is  the  work  of  man.  It  requires 
human  care,  human  companionship,  human  love; 
and  yields  a  return  that  is  peculiarly  mingled  of  nature 
and  art,  bestowing  upon  any  who  enter  its  exquisite 
precincts  something  of  the  sanity,  wholesomeness,  and 
simplicity  of  the  world  of  out-of-doors,  together  with 
the  better  portion  of  the  grace,  interest,  and  social 
charm  of  the  world  within  the  house.  Its  fountains 
murmur  a  lilt  not  too  distant  from  the  laughter  or  the 
tears  of  those  who  carved  the  stone  basins  into  which 
the  water  drips.  In  bower  and  green  way  a  compre- 
hending solitude  lies  waiting  for  whoever  comes  to 
seek  its  quiet  pleasures,  and  there  is  hardly  a  mood 
known  to  man  for  which  the  garden  has  neither  solace 
nor  inspiration.  While  any  gathering  of  friends  or 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

comrades  becomes  more  intimate  there,  where  even  the 
shyest  takes  heart  of  grace,  where  the  most  self-con- 
scious forgets  to  pose,  where  words  come  readily  to 
the  silent,  and  where  silence  is  never  irksome. 

The  garden,  in  fact,  provides  the  most  perfect  of 
social  backgrounds,  possessing  all  the  advantages  and 
none  of  the  drawbacks  of  its  parents,  the  wilderness 
and  the  palace,  those  two  extremes  between  which 
man  moves,  one  the  expression  of  all  that  lies  beyond 
his  control,  the  other  the  result  of  everything  he  has 
learned  to  force  into  his  service. 

There  are  few  who  do  not  feel  at  home  in  a  garden. 
The  roughest  or  most  cultured,  the  simplest  or  the 
world-weary,  the  child,  the  woman  of  fashion,  the  en- 
ergetic or  the  lazy,  the  materialist  on  his  clod  of  earth, 
and  the  poet  in  his  rainbow  maze — all  of  us,  saint  and 
sinner,  sad  or  gay,  enter  a  garden  as  though  it  were 
our  own,  unoppressed  by  its  most  princely  magnifi- 
cence, touched  and  attracted  by  its  simplest  form. 

The  lure  of  the  garden!  It  has  drawn  us  from  the 
beginning  of  history,  and  draws  us  now.  Persian  po- 
tentates and  Egyptian  queens  in  the  days  before  Moses, 
delighted  to  live  in  one ;  and  in  the  scurry  of  modern 
existence  English  M.P.'s  and  commuters'  wives  escape 
from  the  cares  of  state  and  the  terrors  of  housekeeping 
to  plunge  into  the  mysteries  of  planting  and  pruning, 
renewing  their  strength  like  Antaeus  at  every  touch 
of  mother  earth.  As  for  that  special  and  curious  order 

6 


INTRODUCTION 

of  humanity,  lovers,  "Come  into  the  garden,"  has  been 
a  universal  cry  with  them,  until  lovers  without  gardens 
or  gardens  without  lovers  are  equally  unimaginable; 
possibly  each  exists,  but  it  must  be  in  a  halt,  amor- 
phous fashion,  pitiful  to  contemplate  and  tragic  to 
endure. 

Stories  of  gardens  have  come  to  us  from  the  re- 
motest times.  The  story  of  Eden  is  co-eval  with  the 
story  of  man  himself,  and  many  magic  gardens  have 
sent  their  spellbound  legends  down  through  the  ages. 
The  golden-appled  gardens  of  Hesperides,  the  dim 
Elysian  Fields  where  Orpheus  sought  his  Euridice, 
Arabian  places  where  strange  fruit  hangs  on  mysterious 
branches,  with  many  another  of  fairy  lore  or  folk  tale. 
For  it  has  always  been  the  way  of  man  to  create  in  the 
region  of  the  imagination  a  more  perfect  example  of 
the  earth-made,  tangible  thing  he  has  been  able  to 
produce  in  the  world  of  matter.  Let  him  but  love 
anything  sufficiently  and  instantly  he  translates  it  to 
fairy-land,  where  it  acquires  an  immortal  loveliness,  a 
consummate  perfection  beyond  the  reach  of  his  earthly 
powers.  Since  gardens  and  mankind  have  always 
thus  belonged  together,  it  is  no  more  than  natural  to 
suppose  that  they  will  continue  in  delicious  proximity 
as  long  as  eternity  itself.  And  it  is  the  sincere  convic- 
tion of  most  that  not  only  mansions,  but  gardens,  are 
prepared  for  them  in  their  future  existence. 

Like  many  good  things,  gardens  improve  with  age. 

7 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

Here  in  America  there  are  necessarily  none  that  are 
really  old.  For  the  red  man  was  in  no  other  way  so 
truly  a  savage  as  in  the  fact  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
gardens.  Nevertheless,  there  are  a  few  in  the  Old 
Dominion  and  in  New  England  that  date  back  almost 
as  far  as  the  white  occupation,  and  which  breathe  the 
gracious  perfume  of  a  vanished  day.  In  the  generous 
climate  of  California,  moreover,  nature  brings  flower 
and  vine  and  tree  to  so  quick  and  vigorous  a  growth, 
and  mellows  the  sun-kissed  walls  so  soon  after  they 
are  built,  that  the  passage  of  time  is  scarcely  needed  to 
give  these  southern  places  all  the  beauty  of  long- 
lapsed  years. 

Italy  and  England  may  well  dispute  the  palm  for 
supreme  loveliness  in  gardens.  The  warm  ardor 
of  the  former,  the  adoration  of  her  people  for  art, 
form,  color,  for  keeping  outdoors  and  living  among 
flowers,  has  evolved  one  beautiful  expression  of  this 
art,  as  the  moist  fertility  of  England,  the  country  life 
there,  and  the  long  tenure  of  the  estates,  with  a  dis- 
tinct passion  for  growing  things,  has  brought  about  its 
own  consummation  of  perfection. 

In  the  wonderful  days  of  the  Italian  Renaissance, 
women  took  a  keen  joy  in  building  and  planting 
gardens  that  have  survived  to  this  day,  and  are  among 
the  most  exquisite  on  earth.  Much  of  the  medieval 
life  was  passed  in  them.  Here  duchesses  and  prin- 
cesses held  court  under  the  ilex  and  the  rose;  here  the 

8 


INTRODUCTION 

gay,  the  noble,  and  the  witty  discussed  or  read  the  last 
poem,  acted  quaint  masques,  or  sang  to  lute  or  viol  pas- 
sionate canzone  destined  for  immortality.  Beyond  the 
marble  balustrades  flashed  the  bright  sea  or  dreamed 
the  purple  mountains,  and  up  and  down  the  steps  and 
past  the  fountains  and  the  statues  half  hidden  in  green 
shade  swept  lords  and  ladies  not  less  brilliant  in  color 
than  the  most  splendid  of  the  flowers  about  them. 

It  was  in  a  garden  outside  the  walls  of  Florence  that 
the  Boccaccio  novelli  were  related  day  by  day.  No 
room,  howsoever  sumptuous,  could  be  conceived  of  as 
holding  that  bright  assemblage,  could  have  set  free  the 
wit  and  romance  of  the  story-tellers,  as  did  the  shady 
slopes  and  statue-haunted  precincts  of  the  great  garden 
where  they  met.  In  the  town  were  plague,  horror, 
hateful  death.  In  the  garden  a  breathing  fragrance, 
sweet  health,  and  even  merry  hearts,  or  at  least  careless 
ones. 

As  for  England,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  her  without 
terraced  gardens  where  the  grass  is  thicker  than  moss 
and  greener  than  anywhere  else  on  earth,  where  the 
great  trees  have  flung  their  deep  shadows  in  a  mighty 
circle  these  many  centuries,  and  where  even  in  winter 
a  pale  rose  will  still  find  courage  to  bloom.  Great 
gardens  she  has  whose  very  names  are  history,  and 
where  the  landscape  artist  has  reached  his  apogee. 
And  small  gardens  hushed  within  high  walls,  where 
the  wall-flowers  spill  their  musky  odor  and  standard 

1 1 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

roses  step  primly  beside  the  path,  and  where  the  night- 
ingale keeps  the  long  June  nights  awake. 

Here  half  the  social  life  of  England  is  passed.  The 
small  householder  gives  his  garden  quite  as  much  care 
and  thought  as  he  does  his  house.  He  improves  upon 
what  his  father  has  done,  projects  new  plans  and  cher- 
ishes the  old  ones.  At  five  o'clock  he  welcomes  his 
friends  there.  And  tea  in  an  English  garden  is  Eng- 
land at  her  best  and  most  intimate.  An  English  house 
seems  forever  leading  you  to  its  lawns  and  flower  beds. 
The  windows  open  on  the  green  spaces  or  flower- 
edged  walks,  its  whole  being  turns  to  it,  as  it  were. 
Here  the  nurse-maid  sits  of  mornings  at  her  sewing 
while  the  children  dig  in  their  own  beds,  or  question 
the  despotic  old  gardener,  whose  rules  they  must  im- 
plicitly obey;  while  the  afternoon  brings  the  master 
from  his  work  in  the  city  for  an  hour  or  two's  refresh- 
ment before  dinner,  and  the  evening  sees  the  family 
and  their  guests,  with  a  rug  beneath  them  to  guard 
against  the  ever-present  dampness,  taking  their  coffee 
and  cigarettes  on  the  lawn,  while  they  listen  to  the 
nightingales.  Here  it  is  that  the  life  of  the  home  cen- 
ters, finding  among  the  flowers  its  greatest  charm  and 
freedom,  yielding  to  casual  caller  or  cherished  guest  its 
most  delightful  hospitality. 

The  following  book  is  pledged  to  convey  to  its 
readers  something  of  this  social  side  of  gardens  old 
and  new.  Following  no  strict  rule  or  formal  plan,  but 

12 


FOXGLOVE  AND  ROSES   AND  CANTERBURY-BELLS 


INTRODUCTION 

picturing  old  parks  and  pleasaunces,  historic  spots 
where  romance  was  as  busy  as  history,  where  duch- 
esses gave  fetes  and  powdered  gallants  occasionally 
fought  duels ;  telling  too  of  village  merry-makings  with 
old-time  games  and  dances;  of  magnolia-planted 
southern  places  dedicated  to  hospitality,  or  northern 
gardens  whose  generous  gift  of  posies  or  scarlet  berry 
the  utmost  rigor  of  the  weather  could  not  wholly  dis- 
courage. 

In  fact,  the  intention  is  to  go  wandering  through 
many  and  many  a  lovely  place  of  flowers  and  greenery, 
to  show  the  most  stately  as  well  as  the  jolliest  of 
garden  ways,  possibly  to  moralize  a  bit  on  the  habits, 
the  virtues,  and  the  vices  of  garden  owners,  to  point 
out  a  few  famous  gardens  and  relate  a  few  old  tales. 
Above  all,  to  indicate  how  the  social  value  of  a  garden 
is  coming  to  be  better  understood  and  enjoyed  here  in 
America;  how  even  a  very  small  place  is  capable  of 
yielding  a  vast  deal  of  pleasure,  and  how  the  secret  of 
thoroughly  using  a  garden  is  one  well  worth  the 
knowing. 

The  perfect  garden  should  give  something  of  its 
fragrance  and  beauty  to  the  world  at  large,  refreshing 
each  passer-by  with  a  glimpse  at  least  of  climbing 
flower  and  waving  bough.  But  it  must  have  hidden 
recesses  known  only  to  the  favored ;  walls  to  keep  it 
inviolate,  shelter  and  peace  and  calm,  or  it  is  not  really 
a  garden.  And  now  we  will  push  open  the  gate.  .  .  . 

15 


OUR  GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDENS 


IN  AN  OLD  GARDEN 

BY    CHARLES    BUXTON    GOING 

The  garden  beds  are  prim  and  square, 
Box-bordered,  scenting  all  the  air, 
And  fruit-trees  on  espaliers  crawl 
Around  the  high,  old-fashioned  wall. 

Some  little  Mistress,  long  ago, 
Set  out  each  straightly  ordered  row ; 
She  watched  the  spicy  pinks  unfold, 
The  hollyhocks  and  marigold ; 

And  standing  in  the  poppy  bed 
Is  the  old  dial,  where  she  read : 
'  Life  is  a  Shadowe ;  soon  't  is  Night. 
Looke  thou  to  God,  thy  Sun  of  Light" 

Ah  me !    how  many,  many  years 
Since  Death  dried  all  her  mourners'  tears, 
And  mourners'  mourners,  one  by  one, 
Passed  from  the  "shadowe  "  to  the  Sun! 

But  here  her  flowers  portray  her  yet, 
Demure  and  sweet  as  mignonette, 
Tripping,  beneath  the  arch  of  limes, 
To  tend  her  posy  bed  betimes. 

And  where  the  sunlight  lingers  most, 
Musing,  I  sometimes  think  her  ghost 
Breathes  through  the  quiet  paths,  and  dwells 
A  moment  by  the  foxglove  bells. 

A  dainty,  gentle  ghost,  that  treads 
Light  as  the  air  around  the  beds — 
Light  as  the  fragrant  breath  that  blows 
The  falling  petals  of  a  rose. 

And  when,  although  there  is  no  breeze, 
A  little  whisper  fills  the  trees 
And  poppies  bend  their  heads  and  stir — 
I  think  they  know  and  welcome  her. 


'ALONG  THE  PATHS  WALKED  THE  GREAT-GRANDMOTHER." 


CHAPTER  I 
OUR  GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDENS 

IN   the   North,  most  of  them  were  small;  not  too 
much  labor  for  her  own  hands,  aided  in  the  dig- 
ging and  the   heavier  work   by  the  man   of   the 
family,  or  lacking  him,  by  some  one  hired  as  occasion 
demanded;  both  town  and  village  gardens  that  owed 
their  being  to   the  housewife,  had  her  impress   upon 
them,  and  yielded  not  alone  flowers  and  beauty,  but 
medicinal  herbs  and  vegetables. 

They  seem  to  have  had  "  green  fingers,"  these 
grandmothers,  to  belong  to  those  of  whom  it  is  said 
that  a  dry  stick  will  take  root,  let  them  but  plant  it,  and 
after  whose  footsteps  flowers  spring  up,  as  though  they 
were  princesses  of  fairy-land.  All  of  us,  of  course,  were 
not  so  fortunate  as  to  have  owned  these  plant-wise  an- 
cestors, skilful  in  garden  ways,  wise  and  gracious 
women,  creating  in  the  wilderness  little  places  of  delight. 
Nevertheless,  there  were  many  of  them,  as  can  be  seen 
throughout  New  England,  wherever  the  old  houses 
remain.  The  gardens  they  made  were  not  often  the 
result  of  fixed  plans  or  formal  designs,  but  began  close 

2  I 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

to  the  house,  embracing  it  with  vines  and  sheltering  it 
with  flowering  shrubs,  to  spread  out  as  time  and  occasion 
served  and  the  needs  of  the  family  increased.  With 
the  Puritans  utility  went  hand  in  hand  with  beauty  in 
the  garden,  and  the  box-hedged  beds  that  grew  savory 
or  sweet  herbs,  small  fruits  or  simples,  looked  quite  as 
lovely  to  the  gardener  as  the  hollyhocks  and  primroses 
imported  from  England.  Tomatoes,  under  the  name 
of  love-apples,  were  kept  in  the  decorative  portions  and 
trained  on  ornamental  trellises,  being  thought  poisonous, 
while  the  southern  wall  was  used  as  in  England  to 
ripen  quinces  and  apricots  against. 

It  was  the  old-fashioned  posies,  many  of  them  new 
enough  then,  that  were  planted  in  beds  and  borders: 
gillyflower,  love-lies-bleeding,  snapdragon,  purple 
loosestrife,  guelder-roses,  heartsease,  foxglove,  lady's- 
slipper,  eglantine  or  sweetbrier,  since  run  wild  over 
the  country.  Roots  of  sweet  violet  were  carefully 
carried  all  the  long  way  from  England,  as  was  ivy  and 
honeysuckle.  They  flourished  famously  in  the  new 
soil,  disputing  with  the  narrow  paths  their  right  of  ex- 
istence, rejoicing  in  color  and  sweet  odors,  speaking  in 
each  healthy  bloom  and  twining  tendril  of  love,  of  care 
and  gentle  humoring. 

The  Faiths,  Phoebes,  Patiences,  and  Contents,  for 
the  names  of  the  women  were  as  quaint  as  those  of 
their  flowers,  most  of  whom  had  faced  perils  and  bitter 
hardship  for  an  ideal,  had  strongly  individual  charac- 

22 


OUR    GRANDMOTHER'S    GARDENS 

ters,  and  this  individuality  showed  itself  in  their  gar- 
dens. For  of  these,  though  they  were  fashioned  of 
precisely  the  same  materials  and  given  approximately 
the  same  space,  no  two  were  alike.  Their  apparent 
formlessness  was  not  lack  of  expression ;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  was  the  subtle  expression  of  a  living  face  rather 
than  the  steadfast  stare  of  a  statue.  Like  the  houses 
and  the  furniture  of  the  period,  the  gardens  reveal  taste. 
They  were  never  pretentious.  They  were  comfortable, 
livable.  The  arbors,  covered  with  grape-vines,  were 
close  to  the  back  door,  easy  of  access,  places  where  the 
mother  might  sit  quietly  over  much  of  her  work.  The 
flowers  were  to  be  picked,  some  to  fill  the  pewter  bowls, 
others  for  making  essences  and  waters,  or  to  be  carried 
to  a  sick  friend. 

Flowers  first  tended  to  become  a  major  part  of  gar- 
dening in  England  during  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
it  is  to  this  we  owe  the  fact  that  the  notable  flowers  and 
shrubs  of  England  struck  root  here  so  early.  Neither 
Puritan  nor  Cavalier  would  leave  the  new  glory  behind, 
so  that  both  the  grim  New  England  land  and  the  more 
ardent  plantations  of  the  South  were  enriched  with  the 
flowers  of  the  mother  country,  as  well  as  with  her  corn 
and  cattle. 

Narrow  and  hard  the  Pilgrim  fathers  may  have  been ; 
but  at  least  in  their  wives'  or  daughters'  hearts  the  love 
of  beauty  lingered,  and  found  an  outlet  in  the  garden ; 
rose,  larkspur,  and  stock  feeding  the  secret  springs  of 

23 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

sentiment  as  the  peas  and  beans  and  cabbage  fed  the 
body. 

There  is  something  singularly  touching  to  us  of  the 
present  generation  in  these  old  gardens,  as  we  find  them 
now  in  the  old  towns,  scarcely  changed  inside  their 
high  brick  walls,  and  within  whose  circumscribed  space 
so  many  frail  and  busy  hands  found  joyful  labor,  so 
many  patient  eyes  a  calm  delight.  As  the  iron  softened 
in  the  soul  of  the  people  and  happiness  and  beauty 
were  no  longer  regarded  as  sins,  the  utilitarian  side  of 
the  garden  was  less  insisted  upon,  fruits  and  vegetables 
were  relegated  to  a  place  of  their  own,  and  the  trium- 
phant flowers  gaily  overran  the  spaces  left  vacant.  This 
was  about  the  hour  that  our  actual  grandmothers  came 
in  at  the  gate,  and  inaugurated  the  most  charming  era 
of  the  American  garden.  On  the  stern  foundation  pre- 
pared by  their  mothers,  they  laid  a  softening  touch, 
breathed  a  more  glowing  summons  over  slip  and  bulb 
and  seed,  and  were  franker  of  their  love. 

In  an  ancient  part  of  Salem,  Massachusetts,  two  old 
maiden  ladies  occupy  a  commodious  but  simple  frame- 
house  that  has  altered  little  during  the  century  and  more 
of  its  existence.  A  strip  of  grass  and  shrubbery  inter- 
pose between  house  and  street,  while  to  the  left,  over 
the  palings,  one  can  see  the  path  curving  round  invit- 
ingly and  plunging  into  the  green  depths  beyond. 
Follow  this  path,  and  a  charming  old  garden  reveals 
itself.  Cherry-trees  and  wistaria  overarch  it,  disputing 

24 


OUR    GRANDMOTHER'S    GARDENS 

the  dominion  of  the  air,  while  on  all  sides  the  peren- 
nials, long  since  insurgent  trespassers  from  the  beds 
where  they  were  planted,  mingle  their  colors  in  an 
intoxicating  jumble.  Lilies  of  many  sorts,  white  and 
purple  and  spotted  ;  tall  pale  larkspurs  and  canterbury- 
bells,  and  bachelor's  buttons  running  the  gamut  of  blue 
from  white  to  indigo.  Candleberry,  smoke-bush,  snow- 
balls jostle  the  roses  that  take  refuge  on  the  roof  of  the 
summer-house  and  porch,  and  in  and  out  of  the  fence. 
Myrtle,  or  periwinkle,  with  its  geometrical  flowers  of 
sober  blue  and  its  polished  leaves,  scrambles  every- 
where, and  from  odd  corners  stocks  and  spice-flower 
send  their  sweetness.  All  the  old-fashioned  sister- 
hood, in  fact,  wander  as  they  will  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  this  garden.  The  old  wooden  benches 
stand  comfortably  under  the  trees,  beyond  whose 
shadow  the  sun  steeps  his  rays  in  the  tangled 
color ;  a  languid,  murmurous  hum  from  bee  and 
beetle  accentuates  the  silence,  a  gentle,  interested 
silence,  as  of  old  days  brooding  over  the  place,  musing 
of  past  events. 

Hither  came  Hawthorne  in  his  youth,  escorting  his 
cousins  back  from  some  evening  sociable  with  shy  cour- 
tesy. "  He  had  not  much  to  say,  but  his  silence  never 
made  you  feel  uneasy,"  the  younger  of  the  two  sisters 
will  tell  you,  going  back  to  her  girlhood  with  a  smile. 
"  Perhaps  he  was  always  a  little  relieved  to  say  good- 
by  at  the  gate,  however.  But  he  liked  to  spend  an 

27 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

hour  or  two  in  the  garden,  and  we  used  to  leave  him 
to  wander  about  there  by  himself,  smelling  at  the  flow- 
ers or  eating  the  fruit  in  its  season.  At  times  he  would 
stay  out  there  an  entire  afternoon,  hidden  from  sight 
among  the  bushes,  or,  if  any  of  us  did  cross  his  path, 
smiling  silently  and  looking  very  content.  Later  on, 
he  used  to  bring  his  wife,  and  while  we  were  getting 
tea  we  could  hear  them  laughing  and  chatting.  He 
loved  flowers,  I  think." 

The  garden  was  trimmer  in  those  days,  and  the  old 
ladies  young.  But  the  green  old  age  of  both  is  very 
sweet,  very  peaceful,  and  the  spirit  of  a  vanished  day 
is  still  incarnate  there. 

New  England  had  its  big  places  too.  There  is  an 
ancient  garden  in  Sharon,  Connecticut,  that  began  to 
take  shape  as  soon  as  the  Revolution  had  ceded  to 
peace.  The  fine  house,  high  and  broad,  high  enough 
to  admit  a  world  of  sun  and  air,  broad  enough  to  pro- 
duce a  sense  of  brooding  tenderness,  the  sense  of  home ; 
the  terraces,  the  orchards,  the  fish-ponds,  many  of  the 
flowering  trees  and  shrubs,  remain  much  as  they  were, 
except  that  the  honey-locusts  have  grown  gigantic,  and 
the  lilacs  and  syringa  look  in  at  the  second-story 
windows. 

A  tall,  green  fence  of  palings  whose  tops  are  cut  into 
a  clover-leaf  shape  protects  the  place  and  sequesters  the 
garden  proper  from  the  fields  and  lawns.  In  the  past 
this  terraced  portion  covered  two  acres,  planted  with 

28 


SQUARE  TERRACES  STEP  DOWNWARD  FROM  THE  HOUSE 


OUR   GRANDMOTHER'S    GARDENS 

both  flowers  and  vegetables,  but  it  is  smaller  now,  and 
the  vegetables  have  been  banished.  The  ponds  are 
connected  by  a  riotous  brook,  reached  by  way  of  a 
broad  walk  bordered  with  rows  of  brilliant  annuals  on 
either  side,  and  almost  entirely  overarched  at  one  time 
by  superb  shrubbery,  since  dead.  The  path  ends  just 
where  the  brook  escapes  from  the  first  pond  in  sprayey 
falls,  and  there  an  arbor  buried  in  honeysuckle  and 
guelder-roses  shelters  seats  for  the  weary  or  the  idle. 

The  square  terraces  step  downward  from  the  house, 
divided  into  many  beds  by  box-bordered  paths.  In 
the  great-grandmother's  time,  there  was  in  one  corner 
the  garden  of  herbs,  and  a  huge  asparagus  bed,  a  new 
thing  then,  as  well  as  many  vines  bearing  white  or  pur- 
ple grapes,  from  which  wine  was  made  during  the  fall 
days.  Some  of  the  old  flowers  still  linger  in  the  bor- 
ders, such  as  valerian,  marvel-of-Peru,  and  moss-pinks. 
But  where  the  asparagus  grew  the  daffodils  and  jon- 
quils nowadays  spread  a  carpet  of  gold.  The  solid,  fine 
nobility  of  the  house  and  grounds,  their  effect  of  space 
and  permanence,  and  old-world,  courteous  bearing  re- 
main unchanged,  however ;  are,  indeed,  accentuated  by 
the  lapse  of  time. 

Along  the  paths,  wearing  a  great  leghorn  hat  on  her 
high-piled  hair,  and  in  a  gown  of  brilliant  flowered 
chintz,  walked  the  great-grandmother,  then  a  young 
bride,  superintending  the  work  of  servants  and  slaves, 
keeping  careful  watch  on  everything,  and  noting  the 

3* 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

varying  occupations  of  days  and  seasons  in  her  diary. 
The  wine-press  at  work,  herbs  gathered  and  dried,  "a 
busy  morning  in  my  Still-Room,"  where  cordials  and 
waters  were  distilled  or  expressed,  the  planting  of  this 
and  that,  particularly  the  making  of  that  famous  aspara- 
gus bed,  which  she  watched  from  a  camp-stool  under  a 
willow,  carrying  an  umbrella  and  wearing  galoshes, 
"for  it  was  wet  after  last  night's  downpour." 

In  the  South  a  different  mode  of  life  evolved  another 
sort  of  garden.  Gardens  more  like  the  great  old  English 
places,  but  more  glowing,  more  luxuriant.  The  work 
was  done  by  hosts  of  slaves,  and  room  and  money  and 
inherited  luxury  were  the  rule  rather  than  the  excep- 
tion. The  accumulated  taste  of  generations  sought  its 
expression  in  these  southern  gardens,  and  a  touch  of 
stateliness  marks  them.  Much  thought  and  study  was 
given  to  laying  them  out,  and  landscape  artists  were 
brought  from  abroad  to  assist  in  designing  them. 

Coldstream  Plantation,  in  South  Carolina,  is  an  ideal 
garden  of  this  kind,  and  remains  almost  perfectly  what 
it  was,  improved  and  enriched  by  its  century  of  green 
security.  A  wonderful  repose  lies  like  a  holy  spell  upon 
the  place,  a  blessed  sense  of  peace  belonging  both  to 
house  and  grounds.  The  house  brings  to  mind  the  line 
of  the  old  poet, 

May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have, 

for  small  and  simple  it  is  compared  with   its  garden, 

32 


"HERSELF  AS  LOVELY  AS  ANY  FLOWER  THAT  GREW. 


OUR    GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDENS 

• 

though  large   enough   to   make  a  home  for  a  goodly 
family. 

The  hedges  of  Coldstream  are  perhaps  its  greatest 
beauty.  They  are  of  various  kinds,  but  unusually  fine 
of  growth  and  shape.  Ancient  box,  smelling  good  in 
the  hot  sun,  and  smooth  and  solid  as  though  carved 
out  of  blocks;  cedar  and  oleander,  mock-orange  and 
arbor- vitae,  twice  as  high  as  a  man's  head;  cherokee 
rose,  evergreen  trimmed  into  immense  arches,  and 
holly.  These  hedges  encircle  the  whole  garden,  and 
divide  it  furthermore  into  various  sections,  each  given 
over  to  special  loveliness  or  important  uses.  Thus  the 
rose-garden,  the  tea-house,  the  children's  playground, 
are  all  magnificently  framed.  But  the  preponderant 
beauty  of  the  hedges  does  not  prevent  the  rest  of  the 
garden  from  being  wonderful.  It  blooms  the  whole 
year  round.  In  January  come  the  violets,  white  and 
purple  and  fragrant,  the  hyacinths  and  crocuses,  and 
little  flowers  with  lost  names,  rarer  nowadays  than  those 
called  rare.  February  brings  the  yellow  jasmine  that 
flowers  before  it  leaves,  and  in  the  sun-warmed  corners 
tulips  and  narcissi  shake  out  perfume  on  every  wander- 
ing breeze.  The  plum  blossoms  wreathe  their  snow 
upon  the  boughs,  the  Chinese  almonds  grow  subtly 
sweet  and  lovely,  while  before  the  month  has  fairly 
merged  into  March,  the  gay  company  of  daffodils  are 
nodding  in  the  wind  and  the  dogwood  flings  wide  its 
snowy  banners.  With  March  forsythia  weaves  a  mist  of 

35 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

gold,  and  many-colored  irises  make  rainbow  festival, 
while  the  forest-trees  turn  suddenly  green  and  rose. 

But  wait  for  April,  and  then  walk  down  the  luring 
path  between  the  lofty  hedges  to  the  northeast  corner, 
where  the  garden  touches  its  apogee.  Behind  the  Chi- 
nese almonds  the  tea-arbor  shelters  gaily,  and  between 
this  arbor  and  the  house  the  path  separates  in  all  direc- 
tions, making  geometrically  shaped  beds  that  are  filled 
with  color.  Here  the  spiraea  hangs  its  drooping  fronds 
of  flowerets  and  the  magnolia  blooms  magnificently. 
The  creamy  banana  shrub  steeps  the  air  with  its  heavy 
scent,  white  and  pink  diervillas,  lilacs  in  bewildering 
variety  and  honeysuckle  tumble  into  flower  —  and  then, 
some  sudden  day,  the  azaleas  blaze  into  flaming  color, 
so  radiantly  glorious  as  to  be  entirely  unbelievable,  ex- 
cept that  there  they  are.  Towering  high  overhead  in 
swelling  masses,  scattering  vivid  petals  on  grass  and 
gravel,  all  in  sunset  hues  of  rose  and  pink  and  crimson, 
yellow  and  cream  and  warm  white,  unforgetable, 
amazing. 

Next  come  the  intense  crape-myrtles,  the  syringa, 
waxy-white,  and  the  roses,  of  every  color  and  size  and 
shape.  Gardenias  come  with  the  sweet-peas  in  May, 
and  then,  too,  the  oleanders  turn  both  pink  and  sweet. 

Month  by  month,  hidden  in  its  encircling  hedges,  the 
garden  brings  its  various  blossoms  to  perfection.  Even 
in  December  it  has  roses  and  camellias  to  show,  while 
the  autumn  days  are  intoxicating  with  late  lilies  and 

36 


A  CHARLESTON  GARDEN 


OUR    GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDENS 

tall  dahlias  and  the  fire  of  the  dying  leaves.  It  was 
early  in  1800  that  Robert  Witherspoon  brought  his 
bride  home  to  the  simple  white  house  and  great  garden, 
telling  her  she  was  lovelier  than  any  flower  it  grew. 
And  ever  since  the  garden  has  been  cherished  and  en- 
joyed. 

But  all  the  southern  grandmothers  did  not  live  on 
estates.  There  were  town  dwellers  there,  as  in  the 
North.  Perhaps  Charleston  has  retained  the  gardens 
they  made  in  their  original  perfection  more  surely  than 
any  other  of  the  old  cities,  those  high-walled  gardens 
of  ante-bellum  days,  whose  builders  were  full  of  the 
traditions  of  seventeenth-century  England  and  France, 
when  gardens  grew  divine. 

There  is,  for  instance,  the  Miles  Brewerton  House, 
with  its  walled  garden.  The  house  is  a  fine  type  of 
the  early  Georgian  with  brick-arched  loggias  overlook- 
ing the  space  of  flowers,  that  stretches  north  and  south. 
Down  the  center  goes  a  wide  pathway,  overarched  by 
an  arbor  completely  covered  with  the  twining  branches 
of  one  gigantic  climbing  rose.  The  flower  beds  extend 
on  either  side,  brick-edged  and  bordered  with  sweet 
violets  and  other  small  and  fragrant  plants.  Close  to 
the  house  the  oleanders  and  acacias  bloom  and  crowd, 
and  vines  are  all  about,  clambering  over  porches  and 
walls  and  trees.  So  secluded  it  is  that  the  wild  song- 
birds come  here  to  nest,  careless  of  the  city  close 
around. 

39 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

These  high  brick  walls  are  characteristic  of  Charles- 
ton's gardens.  They  are  various  in  design,  relieved 
by  elevations  and  blind  arches,  by  small  turrets  and 
square  ends.  Often  they  are  entirely  hidden  under  the 
English  ivy,  or  softly  pink  from  long  standing  in  sun 
and  rain.  Some  are  coped  with  stone.  All  lend  magic 
glimpses  of  the  wonderlands  they  shelter,  through  an 
arched  gateway  or  unexpected  opening,  or  by  spilling 
over  a  shower  of  wistaria  or  laburnum.  But  these 
places  are  essentially  town  gardens,  made  to  lend  se- 
clusion and  quiet  to  the  house,  as  well  as  loveliness, 
and  to  be  lived  in  as  part  of  the  home.  They  are  lova- 
ble, discreet,  and  sequestered,  nor  are  they  entirely  sel- 
fish. For  down  the  steps  and  beside  the  porches,  over 
the  walls  and  through  the  lattices,  the  flowers  give  every 
passer-by  hints  and  promises  and  prophecies,  no  full 
revelation,  but  exquisite  glimpses.  Charm  is  the  key- 
note, and  the  perfect  relation  of  house  and  garden  each 
to  each,  and  both  to  their  owners'  needs,  whether  of 
body  or  soul. 

Surely  our  grandmothers  of  the  North  and  the  South, 
working  in  a  new  land  and  under  strange  conditions, 
left  us  a  worth-while  heritage  in  these  posy  beds  and 
garden  closes  of  theirs,  a  heritage  whose  value  we  are 
growing  to  appreciate,  and  whose  example  we  shall  do 
well  to  imitate. 


40 


WASHINGTON'S  GARDEN 


MOUNT  VERNON 

WRITTEN   AT   MOUNT   VERNON,   1786 
BY    DAVID    HUMPHREYS 

By  broad  Potomac's  azure  tide, 
Where  Vernon's  mount,  in  sylvan  pride, 

Displays  its  beauties  far, 
Great  Washington,  to  peaceful  shades, 
Where  no  unhallowed  wish  invades, 

Retired  from  scenes  of  war. 

To  thee,  my  friend,  these  lays  belong  : 
Thy  happy  seat  inspires  my  song, 

With  gay,  perennial  blooms, 
With  fruitage  fair,  and  cool  retreats, 
Whose  bowery  wilderness  of  sweets 

The  ambient  air  perfumes. 

Here  Spring  its  earliest  buds  displays, 
Here  latest  on  the  leafless  sprays 

The  plumy  people  sing ; 
The  vernal  shower,  the  ripening  year, 
The  autumnal  storm,  the  winter  drear, 

For  thee  new  pleasures  bring. 

Here,  lapped  in  philosophic  ease, 
Within  thy  walks,  beneath  thy  trees, 

Amidst  thine  ample  farms, 
No  vulgar  converse  heroes  hold, 
But  past  or  future  scenes  unfold, 

Or  dwell  on  nature's  charms. 


NELLY  CUSTIS  IN  THE  MOUNT  VERNON  GARDEN. 


CHAPTER  II 
WASHINGTON'S  GARDEN 

THERE  is  a  garden  in  America  that  has  in  its 
keeping  a  memory  so  hallowed  as  to  lend  it 
the  quality  of  a  shrine.  To  the  man  who 
found  a  vital  joy  in  laying  out  the  grounds  and  plan- 
ning the  house  it  yielded  rest  after  great  labor  glori- 
ously performed,  peace  after  the  tragic  violence  of  years 
of  war,  home  after  the  arduous  career  of  leader  to  a 
new-born  nation  and  all  the  harassments  of  public  life. 
Washington's  garden !  We  have  no  other  place  like 
it  in  the  country.  Many  a  relic  of  past  days  remains 
to  us,  assuredly;  church  and  tomb,  birthplace  and 
monument.  But  here  is  a  garden  of  growing  flowers, 
broad  lawns,  stately  trees  and  winding  paths  created  by 
the  same  man  to  whom  we  owe  a  new  ideal  of  patri- 
otism and  the  foundation  of  our  being  as  a  nation; 
looking  now  much  'as  it  did  when  he  lived  here,  im- 
proving it  day  by  day,  planting  the  trees  that  spread 
their  magnificent  branches  over  house  and  drive,  build- 
ing the  walls  now  overgrown  with  climbers,  finding 
time  to  superintend  everything,  from  the  rotation  of 

45 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

crops  on  the  farms  belonging  to  the  estate  to  the  care 
of  the  rare  exotics  in  the  large  greenhouses. 

The  situation  of  the  house  on  the  gentle  rise  over- 
looking the  river  and  the  blue  hills  of  Maryland  is  a 
fine  one.  It  is  spacious,  dignified,  and  simple,  like  the 
mind  that  perfected  it,  having  balance  and  nobility  of 
character,  together  with  a  satisfying  harmony.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  visible  incarnation  of  Washington's  spirit, 
even  to  a  certain  sternness  and  precision  in  the  original 
plan,  softened  and  mellowed  by  passing  time  and  the 
green  growth  of  nature.  The  house  and  garden  are 
intimately  associated,  making  between  them  the  home. 
There  are  no  formal  beds  of  variegated  leaves  distrib- 
uted like  the  pattern  on  a  quilt  about  the  lawn,  but  the 
grass  flows  from  the  columned  veranda  in  a  broad  ex- 
panse toward  the  Potomac,  exquisitely  diapasoned  with 
the  moving  shadows  of  the  trees  and  bordered  by  ir- 
regular masses  of  flowering  shrubs.  The  hand  of  the 
soldier  is  manifest  in  the  planting  of  the  trees,  and 
though  there  is  precision,  there  is  no  pretension.  It  is 
not  a  show  estate,  but  a  dwelling  to  be  loved  and  lived 
in,  and  to  welcome  friends  to.  Even  the  hosts  of  sight- 
seers who  throng  to  it  in  the  hours  given  over  to  the 
public  cannot  dissipate  this  salient  characteristic.  Gently 
serene,  the  place  appears  to  be  awaiting  the  return  of 
its  master,  faithfully  fulfilling  its  seasonable  tasks,  but 
changing  little  with  time.  The  broad  sweep  of  the 
driveway,  the  approaches  to  the  stream,  the  long  wind- 


WASHINGTON'S   GARDEN 

ing  paths  and  framed  vistas  are  as  Washington  planned 
them.  His,  too,  the  prim  box-hedges  and  such  of 
the  walls  as  remain.  Behind  the  greenhouses,  in  the 
past,  stretched  the  long  straight  rows  of  flowers  where 
Mrs.  Washington  gathered  basketsful  of  blooms  for 
the  house ;  here,  too,  were  her  savory  herbs,  and  a  bush 
or  two  of  lavender. 

Very  lovely  the  old  wall  is  now,  with  its  soft  tones 
of  gray  and  rose  and  cream,  where  the  shrubbery 
reaches  high,  lifting  its  blossoms  above  the  coping.  The 
paths  are  bordered  with  narrow  beds  of  flowers,  and 
there  are  many  other  straight  long  beds  that  are  a  mass 
of  color  and  fragrance,  and  vocal  with  the  hum  of  bees. 

Contemporary  letters  and  sketches  give  many  a  view 
of  the  General,  clad  in  sober  drab  costume  and  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  riding  or  tramping  about  the  estate.  Judg- 
ing from  notes  in  his  diary  and  letters  of  his  own,  he 
was  far  more  interested  in  the  fields  and  farms  than  in 
the  flower  garden  proper.  Nevertheless,  he  notes  on  a 
certain  January  10,  that  "The  white-thorn  is  full  in 
berry,"  and  also  remarks  that  he  has  been  planting 
holly.  Beyond  much  doubt,  however,  it  was  Martha 
Washington  who  had  the  chief  care  of  the  more  deco- 
rative part  of  the  homestead.  She  it  was  who  filled  the 
beds  with  seeds  and  roots  in  the  spring,  and  cut  the 
fresh  flowers,  or  clipped  off  the  faded  ones  in  summer. 
That  was  woman's  work,  and  though  the  General  was 
fain  to  wander  among  the  roses  with  a  keen  pleasure  in 

47 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

their  beauty  and  sweet  smell,  he  left  their  care  to  his 
wife. 

In  a  corner  there  is  a  certain  old  white  rose-bush  that 
tradition,  in  the  voice  of  the  caretaker,  informs  you  is 
the  identical  one  beside  which  lovely  Eleanor  Custis 
plighted  troth  with  Lawrence  Lewis,  the  preux  cavalier 
of  his  day.  Nor  were  these  lovers  the  last  to  find  hap- 
piness beside  the  fair  bush.  For  tradition  goes  on  to 
say  that  ever  since  the  rose  has  proved  a  fatal  spot  for 
man  and  maid,  and  that  many  a  happy  pair  first  found 
courage  to  ask  and  to  answer  the  great  question  as  they 
paused  to  look  at  its  burden  of  bloom.  To-day,  no 
more  than  in  sweet  Nellie's  youth,  can  lovers  resist  the 
persuasion  of  the  white  rose-bush.  Possibly  some  po- 
tent spell  lingers  in  the  perfume  of  its  flowers,  or  the 
spirits  of  lovers  now  dead  set  other  hearts  to  beating 
where  theirs  beat  before.  At  all  events,  any  couple  who 
dread  the  chains  of  matrimony  will  do  well  to  avoid  the 
old  bush,  harmless  and  sweet  as  it  appears  to  the  eye 
in  all  the  bravery  of  its  June  blossoming. 

One  likes  to  imagine  that  this  bush  was  planted  by 
Washington  and  his  wife  some  wet  spring  morning, 
when  the  earliest-come  birds  were  twittering  on  the  bud- 
ding boughs:  planted  with  laughter  and  much  argu- 
ment as  to  just  where  it  would  look  best,  and  finally 
set  in  its  place  by  those  strong  hands  behind  whose 
capable  power  lay  a  heart  not  less  warm  with  human 
love  than  noble  with  sublime  faith  in  ultimate  human 


THE  OLD  WATCHMAN  ON  HIS  ROUNDS  AGAIN. 


of  his  d 
piness  1 
say  thai 


:  lair  bush. 
nee  the 
aund  that  mai 
nd  to  answej 


t  for 
und 

>  ,     To  - 
rs  resisi 


or  the 
eating 

vho 


'as  planted  by 
>rirjg  morning, 


and  finally 


apable  j; 
:>ve  than 


WASHINGTON'S   GARDEN 

good.  Surely  the  white  rose-bush,  so  planted,  may  well 
have  acquired  a  quality  beyond  that  of  any  other  of  its 
kind  on  earth. 

A  plan  of  the  place  as  it  was  in  Washington's  day 
still  exists.  It  was  drawn  in  color  by  Mr.  Samuel 
Vaughan  of  London,  who  visited  the  General  in  1787, 
and  was  approved  by  Washington,  with  the  addition  of 
a  slight  correction.  The  lawn  and  the  two  groves  of 
trees  in  front  of  the  house  are  the  same  to-day.  Behind, 
the  plan  shows  the  small  circular  grass-plot  surrounded 
by  the  driveway.  Below  this  a  large  fiddle-shaped 
lawn  extends,  framed  by  trees  in  marshaled  rows,  and 
flanked  on  either  side  by  the  big  kitchen-gardens.  Close 
to  the  house  were  the  numerous  cabins  for  the  slaves, 
the  quarters  for  white  servants,  the  tailor  and  boot- 
maker and  blacksmith  shops,  etc.  A  spring-house,  a 
smoking-house,  stables,  and  spinning-rooms,  even  a 
school,  all  are  arranged  in  symmetrical  order.  The 
kitchen-gardens  were  inclosed  within  brick  walls,  and  a 
"stately  hothouse"  stood  in  one.  Mr.  Vaughan  notes 
that  the  General  "owned  12,000  acres,  whereon  were 
several  farms,  five  of  which  are  kept  under  cultivation. 
.  .  .  He  breakfasts  at  seven,  then  mounts  his  horse  and 
canters  six  days  in  the  week  to  every  one,  a  circuit  of 
about  twenty  miles,  inspecting  and  giving  directions  for 
management  at  each,  and  returns  home  at  two  o'clock." 

A  charming  country-gentleman's  life.  And  while 
Washington  rode  forth  over  the  estate,  his  lady  gave 

51 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

her  orders  for  the  planting  of  this  and  that  in  her  gar- 
dens, saw  that  the  paths  were  raked  and  the  beds 
weeded,  and  sent  word  through  her  distinguished  hus- 
band to  thank  a  friend  for  the  present  of  "roots  and 
flower  seeds."  Probably  Miss  Custis  moved  about  the 
sweet-smelling  beds  a  good  deal,  vivid  as  a  flower  her- 
self, on  visits  there.  And  the  General's  nephew,  George, 
with  his  own  wife,  also  dwelt  in  the  "  Delightful  Man- 
sion," going  the  rounds  for  his  uncle  when  affairs  of 
state  called  the  latter  away;  for  Washington  was  still 
needed  by  his  country. 

The  best  time  in  which  to  see  this  beautiful  and 
kindly  spot,  and  to  conjure  up  its  past,  is  when  the  long 
shadows  begin  to  stretch  themselves  on  the  grass,  weary 
of  their  dancing  through  the  day.  A  mist  lies  white  on 
the  river,  stealing  up  as  the  twilight  deepens  to  creep 
among  the  trees  and  drift  over  the  garden  in  wraith-like 
wisps.  Gone  are  the  excursionists  with  their  noisy  ad- 
miration; not  a  footstep  passes,  at  least  no  human 
tread.  Instead  there  are  scurryings  of  the  little  creatures 
of  the  earth  and  air,  the  chuchurr  of  myriads  of  insects, 
the  evening  song  of  birds  in  the  rich  gold  and  purple 
light  of  the  dying  day,  the  stirring  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees.  So  many  birds !  The  cardinal,  fluting  its  joyous 
notes  before  it  drops  like  a  flame  to  the  ground  from 
the  dark  mystery  of  a  huge  oak ;  the  song-sparrows  and 
linnets,  measuring  their  ripple  of  music  over  and  over 
again ;  the  robins  calling  from  every  tree-top  ;  then, 


THE  LONG,  STRAIGHT  ROWS  OF  FLOWERS 


WASHINGTON'S   GARDEN 

after  the  moon  is  up,  the  June  night  is  sometimes 
flooded  with  the  tangled  melody  of  a  mocking-bird, 
weaving  its  silver  mesh  of  song  after  all  the  other 
singers  have  hushed  their  last  notes. 

Now  the  fireflies  begin  to  gleam  over  the  lawns  and 
among  the  shrubbery.  The  shadows  increase,  and  are 
full  of  the  smell  of  honeysuckle.  An  exquisite  blue  haze 
rises  and  wraps  itself  about  the  tops  of  the  trees,  inter- 
posing an  almost  impalpable  presence  between  the 
garden  and  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  moon  shines 
white  on  the  white  house,  sharply  outlining  the  columns, 
and  the  night  wind  tosses  the  shadows  about  oddly. 
Murmuring  with  unseen  life,  moist  and  warm  and  fra- 
grant, the  garden  waits.  .  .  . 

Is  it  a  shade  among  the  shades?  Or  really  a  tall 
figure  in  a  cloak,  with  a  three-cornered  hat  giving  a 
glimpse  of  nose  and  chin?  It  seems  to  bend  over  a 
white  mist-form  as  though  in  converse.  Now  both 
move  slowly  toward  the  house.  A  deep  quiet  broods 
throughout  the  garden,  a  welcoming  silence.  Surely 
the  two  figures  are  those  of  a  man  and  a  woman ;  see, 
he  lifts  his  hat  and  raises  his  face  toward  the  light  with 
a  movement  full  of  dignity  and  peace  .  .  .  or  is  it  but 
the  shimmering  of  a  white  lilac  stirring  to  the  breeze  ? 
Fancy,  deceiving  elf,  has  lost  her  power,  or  you  your 
true  seeing.  At  all  events,  the  trees  are  swaying  again, 
the  insects  busy  with  flute  and  viol,  and  the  heavy  lilies 
nod  their  heads  indifferently. 

55 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

It  was,  to  be  sure,  the  larger  aspects  of  the  estate 
that  most  interested  Washington;  he  took  to  farming 
with  the  same  energy  and  far  more  pleasure  than  he 
had  to  fighting.  He  utters  wisdom  on  carrot  and  bean, 
and  asserts  that  he  has  "a  high  opinion  of  potatoes." 
But,  when  the  day's  business  was  accomplished,  the 
rounds  made  and  directions  given,  with  dinner  com- 
fortably over,  it  is  pleasant  to  think  of  the  country's 
father  as  having  strolled  between  the  flower-beds,  smok- 
ing a  long  pipe  perhaps,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
his  eye  quick  to  detect  any  neglected  bush  or  plant,  or 
any  opportunity  for  improvement,  and  yet  noting  with 
delight  the  fresh  growth  and  lusty  flowering  around 
him.  In  his  mind,  doubtless,  old  memories  of  camp 
and  office  mingled  with  the  present  whose  fine  fruit  he 
was  enjoying;  much  talk  of  past  and  future  there  must 
have  been,  as  the  old  verses  that  preface  this  chapter 
tell,  as  well  as  pregnant  remarks  on  the  beauties  of 
nature.  Hither  came  the  traveler  from  distant  lands, 
to  look  upon  the  hero  of  a  new  epoch,  living  out  the 
last,  quiet  years  in  such  simplicity ;  and  here,  too,  the 
great  men  who  had  helped  him  in  his  work,  and  the  new 
generation  that  was  to  carry  it  on. 

So  let  us  leave  him  and  his  garden,  moving  softly 
away  through  the  rich  June  night  along  the  paths  he 
trod;  with  a  last  look  at  that  old  white  rose-bush, 
glimmering  rather  mischievously  under  the  moon,  medi- 
tating maybe  upon  its  dangerous  but  delicious  mission, 

56 


WASHINGTON'S   GARDEN 

and  scattering  its  petals  in  a  magic  circle  about  it;  and 
just  one  more  backward  glance  before  we  go,  half-fan- 
cying we  hear  a  slight  commotion,  as  though  the  old 
watchman  were  on  his  rounds  again.  .  .  . 


57 


CHILDHOOD    IN    THE    GARDEN 


THE  FLOWERS 

BY  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

All  the  names  I  know  from  nurse : 
Gardener's  garters,  Shepherd's  purse, 
Bachelor's  buttons,  Lady's  smock, 
And  the  Lady  Hollyhock. 

Fairy  places,  fairy  things, 

Fairy  woods  where  the  wild  bee  wings, 

Tiny  trees  for  tiny  dames — 

These  must  all  be  fairy  names. 

Tiny  woods  below  whose  boughs 
Shady  fairies  weave  a  house ; 
Tiny  tree-tops,  rose  or  thyme, 
Where  the  braver  fairies  climb ! 

Fair  are  grown-up  people's  trees, 
But  the  fairest  woods  are  these ; 
Where  if  I  were  not  so  tall, 
I  should  live  for  good  and  all. 


"HOW  WELL  A  CHILD  BECOMES  THE  GARDEN." 


CHAPTER  III 
CHILDHOOD  IN  THE  GARDEN 

IF  all  children  might  be  brought  up  in  gardens,  there 
would  probably  be  few  criminals  raised,  and  many 
of  the  more  unhappy  developments  in  the  race  be 
finally  swept  away.  Practically  every  child  loves  gar- 
dens, adores  digging  in  the  ground,  and  comes  very 
soon  to  taking  an  interest  in  the  right  way  of  planting 
and  caring  for  growing  things.  Put  a  child  into  a  gar- 
den, and  with  little  instruction  and  no  trouble  you  make 
him  healthy,  happy,  and  quite  wise  enough.  How  bet- 
ter can  you  educate  his  sense  of  beauty  and  order  or 
cultivate  in  him  a  perception  of  natural  laws  ?  Give 
him  his  own  special  corner,  his  feeling  of  responsibility. 
The  burden  of  flowers  is  a  slight  one  to  lay  on  young 
shoulders,  and  will  broaden  and  straighten  the  alert 
young  bodies,  not  bow  them  down.  Answer  all  his 
questions  too ;  it  may  necessitate  a  good  deal  of  study 
on  your  part,  but  you  won't  be  sorry  for  that. 

On  many  of  the  English  estates  a  portion  of  the  land 
is  set  aside  for  the  "children's  garden,"  and  as  much 
attention  is  given  to  its  arrangement  and  completeness 

63 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

as  to  the  rooms  reserved  in  the  house  for  the  same 
young  people.  In  this  garden  each  child  has  a  section 
for  whose  appearance  and  use  he  is  responsible.  There 
is  usually  a  lawn  for  a  playground,  trees  that  can  be 
climbed,  and  a  pavilion  or  summer-house  where  lessons 
can  be  studied  out-of-doors  or  games  played  on  rainy 
days.  Sometimes  there  is  a  stretch  of  smooth  turf  for 
bowls  or  croquet,  or  even  a  tennis  ground,  according 
as  a  greater  or  less  amount  of  space  is  available.  But, 
small  or  great,  the  place  belongs  to  the  children.  They 
raise  what  they  choose,  fruits  or  flowers  or  vegetables, 
make  their  mistakes,  and  do  all  the  work.  They  can 
have  all  the  advice  and  guidance  they  want,  but  they 
are  left  free  to  make  their  own  decisions  and  follow 
their  own  taste.  Sometimes  there  are  prizes  for  the 
prettiest  bed,  the  choicest  flower  or  finest  vegetable,  the 
contests  being  properly  handicapped  with  regard  to  age 
and  experience.  The  tiny  plot  belonging  to  the  young- 
est toddler  may  present  a  rather  bare  and  uneven  ap- 
pearance, to  be  sure.  All  the  more  do  those  belonging 
to  the  older  ones  witness,  in  color  effects,  neatness,  and 
their  well-cared-for  state,  how  rapid  is  the  advance 
made  and  how  easily  these  outdoor  lessons  are 
learned.  Some  children  undoubtedly  develop  more 
taste,  more  natural  skill  and  feeling  for  garden  work 
than  others.  But  the  child  who  does  not  take  more 
than  a  perfunctory  interest  in  the  subject  is  almost 
always  the  child  who  has  never  been  given  the  chance. 


CHILDHOOD  IN  THE   GARDEN 

Unluckily,  many  people  who  have  children  do  not 
own  gardens,  or  at  best  spend  but  a  short  period  of  the 
year  within  reach  of  them,  and  there  are  many  thou- 
sands of  boys  and  girls  who  never  know  what  it  is  to 
work  in  the  ground.  In  an  effort  to  overcome  this  sad 
condition,  school  gardens  have  been  started  in  different 
municipalities,  particularly  the  Middle  West  Children 
who,  driven  from  the  streets  to  the  tenement-houses 
and  back  again,  had  learned  everything  of  which  a 
child  should  be  ignorant,  and  who  had  come  to  act  in 
ways  thoroughly  appropriate  to  their  hard  and  hideous 
surroundings,  were  taken  to  these  gardens  and  set  to 
work. 

The  result  was  and  continues  to  be  wonderful.  Like 
Antaeus  renewing  his  strength  at  each  contact  with  the 
earth,  these  children  acquired  a  youth  and  joy  they  had 
never  known,  turned,  in  fact,  into  real  children,  digging 
up,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  ground  they  worked,  that  in- 
nocence and  happiness  which  should  have  been  their 
birthright  Small  lads  of  six  and  eight,  already  marked 
in  the  books  of  the  law  as  "incorrigibles,"  toiled  at 
the  new  labor,  becoming  almost  what  they  ought  to  be 
at  that  age.  Brown,  lusty,  red-cheeked  under  their 
broad  straw  hats,  looking  confidently  up  into  your  face 
as  you  came  to  see  them  at  their  planting,  these  "  in- 
corrigibles" strove  with  one  another  to  produce  the 
largest  tomatoes,  the  fattest  peas  or  beans,  the  most 
radiant  nasturtiums  or  finest  geraniums,  pouring  into 

67 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

their  work  all  the  energy  that,  before  a  garden  gate  had 
opened  to  them,  spent  itself  in  mean  and  ugly  deeds. 

Even  the  child  who  is  brought  up  with  the  utmost 
care  and  all  the  advantages,  but  who  has  never  had  this 
privilege  of  the  garden,  has  lost  a  precious  possession, 
has  not  been  treated  quite  fairly,  has  been  deprived  of  a 
host  of  lovely  memories  and  much  valuable  experience. 

Though  your  place  be  small,  try  to  reserve  a  bit  of 
it  for  the  children ;  and  where  this  cannot  be  managed, 
at  least  let  the  youngsters  into  your  own  garden.  Let 
them  live  close  to  its  flowers,  even  though  a  small  foot 
treads  over  the  borders  now  and  then.  Give  them  a 
pair  of  scissors  and  let  them  help  cut  the  blossoms  for 
the  house,  or  snip  off  the  dead  ones ;  teach  them  to 
weed,  to  transplant,  to  train  vines.  You  will  be  sur- 
prised to  see  how  well  a  child  becomes  a  garden,  how 
much  lovelier  each  is  for  the  other.  And  it  is  they 
who,  in  the  spring,  will  find  the  first  snowdrop  or 
crocus,  or  be  found  lying  flat  on  their  stomachs  in 
the  grass,  solemnly  staring  at  a  violet.  Teach  them 
that  a  garden  looks  to  them  for  consideration  and 
care,  and  must  be  gently  treated.  It  is  a  lesson  a 
child  learns  easily,  and  if  he  does  work  any  havoc, 
he  will  be  in  greater  distress  over  the  accident  than  you 
yourself. 

Many  a  memoir  or  biography  testifies  to  the  strong 
impression  produced  upon  the  mind  whose  earliest 
years  were  spent  in  a  garden,  and  though  most  of 

68 


CHILDHOOD   IN   THE   GARDEN 

childhood  may  have  faded  into  the  indistinguishable 
background  of  the  past,  old  people  have  no  trouble  in 
finding  the  old  paths,  in  hearing  again  the  murmur 
of  the  fountain  and  the  voices  of  vanished  playmates, 
or  in  remembering  what  flowers  had  first  bloomed  for 
them.  And  those  among  us  thus  fortunate  in  their 
youth  who  come  back  into  a  garden,  find  their  memo- 
ries stocked  with  all  sorts  of  useful  odds  and  ends  of 
information  regarding  the  best  way  to  make  this  or  the 
other  thing  grow,  how  deep  seeds  are  to  be  planted, 
when  to  separate  perennials  or  transplant  annuals,  with 
heaven  only  knows  what  beside  ;  and  this  though  years 
have  intervened  since  we  closed  the  gate  of  our  child- 
hood garden  behind  us,  with  never  the  time  since  to 
open  another. 

Gardens  resemble  reading  in  this,  that  where  you 
have  not  acquired  a  taste  for  either  in  youth,  you  will 
never  completely  acquire  it.  And  yet  the  atmosphere 
of  flowers,  as  that  of  books,  should  be  incorporated  into 
the  personality  of  every  one,  insuring  as  it  does  in 
a  turbulent  and  hazardous  world  no  small  degree  of 
happiness.  Humanity  has  long  joined  in  the  ac- 
knowledgment that  the  love  of  reading  is  one  of  the 
great  blessings  of  life,  a  rampart  against  ennui,  an 
asylum  from  sorrow.  Just  as  certain  is  the  relief 
afforded  by  a  garden.  When  you  plant  in  a  child's 
heart  the  love  of  its  tended  beauty,  you  are  giving  him 
an  open  sesame  to  the  palace  of  peace,  a  refuge  from 

71 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

the  dust  and  glare  of  the  arena,  something  to  which  he 
can  turn  with  joy  when  other  interests  die. 

Many  things  happen  in  the  soul  of  a  child  of  which 
we  have  little  conception,  traveling  as  we  do  daily  far- 
ther from  the  east.  Dreams  and  fancies  crowd  upon 
them,  and  in  seeking  to  adjust  the  world  within  to  that 
without,  important  transmutations  occur.  It  is  as  well 
that  these  adjustments  should  not  be  too  violent,  nor 
the  contrast  between  dream  and  reality  too  marked  in 
the  beginning. 

If  your  child  spends  hours  musing  down  there  where 
the  fountain  drips  musically  into  the  little  pond  overfull 
of  white  and  red  lilies,  you  may  feel  sure  that  he  is 
building  part  of  a  foundation  of  life  not  unworthy.  Send 
him  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  out  to  play  under  the 
pink  wonder  of  the  azaleas,  or  to  chase  the  flying  leaves 
over  the  lawn  when  October  gives  the  signal  for  the 
fire  dance,  and  something  beside  the  rewards  of  exercise 
and  fresh  air  will  be  given  them.  Teach  them  their 
lessons  in  the  rose-grown  summer-house,  and  if  their 
attention  wanders,  following  the  tip-tilted  flight  of  a 
butterfly  or  harkening  to  the  excited  warbling  of  a  wren, 
do  not  bother  overmuch.  The  best  things  are  not 
taught  in  words,  and  what  man  has  done  is  not  the  only 
truth  to  be  learned. 

And  as  for  health !  Just  look  at  them,  kept  out  from 
earliest  morning  to  sunset,  reeking  of  mother  earth 
like  a  root  fresh  plucked  from  the  soil,  lusty  of  limb  and 

72 


'LET  THEM  LIVE  CLOSE  TO  ITS  FLOWERS. 


ant  transmu 
itments 
tween  <i- 


.mcies  cro1 

'thin  to 
.     It  i:. 


him 


fire 
and 


lild  sper 
drips  in 


the 

xercise 
ri  their 
if  their 


ling  of  a  wren, 
hi  rigs  are  not 
is  not  the  only 


of    mother 


CHILDHOOD  IN  THE   GARDEN 

rosy  of  cheek,  with  eyes  as  clear  as  a  woodland  pool. 
Wise  in  nature's  ways,  serene  and  merry,  no  nervous, 
prematurely  school-aged  children,  these.  Possibly  they 
are  a  bit  behind  in  the  usual  smattering  of  class-room 
courses,  but  they  are  likely  to  have  more  than  a  passing 
acquaintance  with  the  actual  habits  of  the  grand  old 
mother,  her  birds  and  insects  and  plants,  her  lovely  ap- 
peals and  eternal  interests. 

Make  your  earliest  school-room  the  garden  and  you 
are  not  likely  to  regret  it.  You  won't  have  to  worry 
over  your  boy  or  girl's  anemia,  or  be  troubled  with 
nerves  out  of  kilter,  or  with  the  results  of  overstudy 
and  under-development.  And  if  any  child  in  the  world 
needs  a  garden  to  grow  up  in,  it  is  the  American  child, 
with  its  alert,  sensitive  mind,  its  too-tense  ambition  and 
love  of  competition,  its  unconscious  assimilation  of  the 
spirit  of  hurry  that  so  bedevils  its  elders.  Out  with 
them,  then !  Let  the  walls  be  high  enough  to  give  them 
seclusion,  let  them  have  undisturbed  long  hours  alone 
there,  let  them  come  to  feel  and  comprehend  the  sure, 
slow  methods  of  nature,  its  honesty  and  beauty.  Let 
them  have  a  place  where  they  can  romp  and  shout  and 
tumble,  and  let  them  learn  also  how  much  patience  and 
devotion  is  required  to  bring  even  a  flower,  to  per- 
fection. 

My  own  earliest  recollection  is  of  an  English  garden 
where  the  fragrance  of  wall-flowers  lay  sweet  from  June 
to  November,  and  where  we  were  occasionally  kept 

75 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

awake  by  the  nightingales,  singing  through  the  long 
summer  twilights.  At  the  foot  of  the  garden  farthest 
from  the  house,  the  wall  faced  south,  and  was  quite  cov- 
ered behind  plum-  and  apricot-trees  neatly  spread  and 
tacked  down  with  pieces  of  felt.  Many  a  happy  morn- 
ing and  smashed  finger  testified  to  the  earnest  labor  of 
our  small  hands,  permitted  to  assist  in  subduing  the 
natural  inclination  of  those  trees  to  stand  on  their  own 
roots  and  maintain  an  independent  existence.  Next  to 
the  trees  were  rows  of  currant-  and  gooseberry-bushes, 
and  there  was  a  cucumber  frame  and  a  number  of  long 
narrow  beds  of  lettuces,  radishes,  peas,  and  vegetable 
marrows,  as  well  as  two  huge  bushes  of  lavender,  whose 
tiny  fragrant  blossoms  we  helped  to  gather. 

In  front  of  the  house  was  the  flower  garden,  sepa- 
rated into  two  unequal  parts  by  a  gravel  pathway  that 
led  from  gate  to  door.  Along  this  path  went  prim 
standard  rose-trees  presenting  their  bloom  in  the  form 
of  a  bouquet,  and  standing  very  erect.  A  tall  arbor- vitae 
hedge  shielded  the  garden  from  the  road  that  led  to  the 
village,  and  I  never  smell  its  pungent  odor  to  this  day 
without  a  drifting  memory  of  that  English  garden. 

There  was  a  little  greenhouse,  and  in  a  corner  of  the 
lawn  a  table  and  comfortable  seats  where  tea  was  served 
in  fine  weather.  Many  flowers  grew  in  the  long  beds 
that  ran  all  round  this  lawn,  close  to  the  walls,  which 
were  buried  in  ivy,  and  close  to  the  house  were  rows  of 
hollyhocks  and  larkspur  in  splendid  clumps.  In  my 


A  PLACE  TO  DREAM  AND  LINGER  IN 


CHILDHOOD   IN   THE   GARDEN 

memory  it  is  always  summer  in  this  garden;  I  have 
not  the  least  recollection  of  it  save  in  the  heyday  of  its 
bloom. 

Marvelous  were  the  games  we  played  there,  and  un- 
forgetable  the  happiness  we  enjoyed.  We  each  had  our 
small  set  of  tools,  our  square  of  earth.  We  sometimes 
brought  wild  flowers  from  hedge-row  and  meadow  to 
adorn  these  beds,  and  assiduously,  though  without  re- 
sult, planted  boughs  of  trees.  In  one  instance,  how- 
ever, a  willow  took  hardy  hold  and  proceeded  to  grow 
amazingly,  arousing  in  us  all  the  greatest  excitement. 
It  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  big  moments  of  life,  an  im- 
mense vindication  of  faith. 

I  suppose  it  is  because  of  this  garden,  that  remains 
so  secure  and  beloved  in  my  mind,  that  the  spectacle  of 
children  growing  up  in  city  streets  and  schoolyards,  or 
even  in  those  unsatisfactory  expanses  that  do  duty  for 
gardens  in  many  suburbs,  fills  me  with  desperate  pity. 
It  is  so  bitterly  unjust,  and  in  many  cases  so  unneces- 
sary. For  gardens  could  often  be  made,  at  some  sac- 
rifice perhaps,  yet  little  enough  where  the  reward  is 
considered,  in  many  a  place  where  they  are  not  per- 
mitted. To  rob  yourself  of  a  garden  is  bad  enough;  but 
to  take  from  your  child  his  inherent  right  to  one,  a 
right  to  which  that  ancient  story  of  the  garden  of  Eden 
perhaps  alludes,  is  almost  like  depriving  him  of  the  use 
of  a  hand  or  an  eye. 


79 


THE  SOCIAL  SIDE  OF  GARDENS 


A  CHAPLET  OF  GARDEN  FLOWERS 

BY    MICHAEL   DRAYTON 

Here  Damask  Roses,  white  and  red, 

Out  of  my  lap  first  take  I, 

Which  still  shall  runne  along  the  thred, 

My  chiefest  Flower  this  make  I ; 

Among  these  Roses,  in  a  row, 

Next  place  I  Pinks  in  plenty, 

These  double  Daysyes  then  for  show, 

And  will  not  this  be  dainty? 

The  pretty  Pansy  then  I  '11  tye 

Like  Stones  some  chaine  inchasing, 

And  next  to  them  their  neere  Alye, 

The  purple  Violet  placing. 

The  curious,  choyce,  Clove  July-flower, 

Whose  kinds  hight  the  Carnation, 

For  sweetnesse  of  most  soveraine  power, 

Shall  help  my  Wreathe  to  fashion  ; 

Whose  sundry  cullers  of  one  kinde 

First  from  one  Root  derived ; 

Then  in  their  several  sutes  I  '11  binde, 

My  Garland  so  contrived. 


e  this  primal 


'BEFORE  THE  TIME  OF  FORMAL  GARDENS. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  SOCIAL  SIDE  OF  GARDENS 

THE  art  of  using  a  garden  is  hardly  to  be  ac- 
quired in  a  moment;    it  is  far  more  difficult 
than  learning  how  to  make  one!      But  it  is 
well  worth  the  studying,  for  a  properly  used  garden 
is    capable  of  yielding   an  infinite    amount   of  pleas- 
ure.    Let  the  social  charm  of  the  garden  once  come 
to  be  felt  and  it  grows  to  be  indispensable;  the  pos- 
sessor of  so  much  as  an  acre  of  ground  will  not  rest 
until  he  has  his  own,  with  its  individual  excellencies  and 
possible  makeshifts,  but  at  least  entirely  his. 

For  though  privacy  is  essential  to  a  garden,  it  does 
not  take  great  space  to  secure  this  primal  necessity.  It 
is  by  no  means  the  few  large  places  that  count:  it  is  the 
many  little  ones;  the  small  places  transformed  into  a 
sweet  and  intimate  personal  possession  to  be  shared  with 
one's  friends,  where  the  flower  of  social  intercourse  may 
be  cherished  quite  as  carefully  as  its  fragrant  sisterhood 
of  the  beds  and  borders.  Discrimination  is  an  im- 
portant attribute  of  character  that  develops  slowly,  both 
in  individuals  and  communities.  In  America  it  has  not 

85 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

yet  been  sufficiently  considered,  a  fact  as  clearly  proved 
by  the  usual  suburban  garden  as  by  anything  else.  For 
an  expanse  of  ground  planted  with  flowering  shrubs  and 
merging  unmarked  into  the  adjoining  plot,  to  continue 
indefinitely  from  house  to  house,  may  be  charming  to 
look  upon  but  a  garden  it  is  not;  any  more  than  the 
marble  arcade  of  a  down-town  skyscraper  open  to  the 
general  public  is  a  home. 

The  real  garden  must  be  protected  from  the  passer-by ; 
must  have  hedge  or  wall,  must  exclude  what  does  not 
"belong,"  or  cease  to  exist.  It  must  be  a  place  beyond 
whose  confines  the  weary  world  may  go  hang.  It  must 
spell  intimacy,  and  its  full  secret  be  known  only  to  the 
chosen;  be  a  privilege  shared,  rather  than  a  possession 
displayed.  The  garden  is  not  the  place  for  a  "  crush," 
for  a  fashionable  reception,  for  a  function,  but  for  actual 
happiness,  real  hospitality,  and  affectionate  comrade- 
ship; that  social  intercourse,  in  fact,  which  yields  en- 
joyment, not  weariness. 

In  any  histoire  intime  of  the  days  when  the  agreeable 
assemblage  of  mutually  pleasing  persons  was  a  fine  art, 
the  garden  plays  its  part.  Infinite  care  and  art  were 
expended  to  make  these  outdoor  rooms  enchanting,  and 
in  arranging  them  so  as  to  create  a  mingled  sense  of 
possible  solitude  with  the  constant  potentiality  of  charm- 
ing companionship.  A  history  of  social  life  is  to  a  large 
extent  a  history  of  gardens,  reflecting  as  they  do  to  a 
remarkable  degree  the  characteristics  of  the  society  that 

86 


THE    SOCIAL   SIDE   OF   GARDENS 

made  and  enjoyed  them.  Even  as  a  scientist  recon- 
structs his  monster  from  a  portion  of  bone,  so  might  the 
student  of  human  manners  rebuild  an  entire  social 
regime  from  some  ruined  garden  whose  tangled  bos- 
kets and  moldering  statues  whispered  their  secrets  of 
the  past.  The  pictures  of  Fragonard  with  their  veils  of 
misty  leaves  and  gracious  rose-twined  marbles  tell  more 
of  the  actual  social  atmosphere  pervading  the  reigns  of 
the  Louis  than  a  volume  of  printed  pages  could  convey. 
And  to  wander  through  one  of  the  gardens  built  during 
the  Italian  Renaissance  is  to  have  the  soul  of  a  whole 
generation  explained. 

The  society  of  the  Italian  principalities  in  the  six- 
teenth century  was  as  brilliant  as  the  art,  with  all  its 
revival  of  learning,  poetry,  painting,  and  architecture. 
Nor  were  the  women  less  ardent,  less  cultured  than  the 
men.  The  passion  for  creation,  the  creation  of  beauty, 
which  obsessed  every  one,  flamed  in  them  too.  A  few 
wrote  or  painted ;  but  most  found  the  fulfilment  of  their 
desire  in  fashioning  a  perfect  frame  for  the  labor  of  the 
greatest.  So  it  was  that  many  of  these  gifted  women 
turned  their  talents  to  the  making  of  gardens,  gardens 
peculiarly  suited  for  social  enjoyment,  for  gatherings 
of  the  wise  and  the  witty,  gardens  expressing  a  certain 
high  reserve  and  yet  inviting  a  pleasant  freedom. 

"There  was  a  passion  for  beautiful  gardens  in  the 
Italy  of  that  day,"  says  Christopher  Hare,  in  her  memoir 
of  Baldassare  Castiglione,  author  of  the  world-famous 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

"Book  of  the  Courtier."  And,  going  on  to  describe 
the  particular  garden  where  the  young  nobleman  spent 
his  childhood,  she  writes:  " Closed  in  by  thick  dark 
hedges  of  box  and  yew,  sheltered  by  plane-trees  to  the 
south,  so  that  there  was  always  shade  at  noon,  the  gar- 
dens were  laid  out  in  terraces  in  front  of  the  castello, 
from  whence  stretched  out  long  straight  walks  covered 
with  vine-grown  pergolas  and  bordered  with  rose-trees 
and  jessamine.  Green  lawns  sloped  down  to  the  steep 
banks  of  the  river  Oglio,  with  a  marble  fountain  in  the 
center  of  the  turf,  and  orange-trees  in  boxes  at  every 
corner,  while  in  distant  nooks  were  sylvan  arbors  and 
strange  grottoes  with  quaint  figures  of  animals  carved  in 
stone.  A  place  to  dream  and  linger  in  of  a  summer 
evening,  green  with  perpetual  verdure,  musical  with  the 
voice  of  waters,  glowing  with  luscious  fruits  and  the 
sweetest  flowers." 

It  was  in  places  like  this  that  the  duchessas  and  mar- 
quesas  held  their  choicest  parties.  What  a  picture 
must  have  been  presented  when,  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  golden  afternoons,  the  company  began  to  gather  on 
the  shaded  terraces,  the  men  in  doublets  of  velvet  and 
satin  and  silken  hose,  with  massive  gold  chains  round 
their  necks  and  wearing  splendid  jewels  as  clasps  for  the 
feathers  in  their  caps,  or  set  into  their  sword-hilts,  the 
women  shining  in  priceless  fabrics,  with  veils  of  gold 
tissue  and  strings  of  gems.  Wine  was  served  in  crys- 
tal cups,  and  cakes  and  sweetmeats  on  golden  plates,  and 

88 


THE   SOCIAL  SIDE   OF   GARDENS 

"  there  were  sweet  discourses  upon  stringed  instruments, 
with  songs  whose  words  and  music  had  often  been 
composed  by  one  of  the  company."  For  in  these 
chosen  assemblies  one  found  not  only  the  high  nobility 
of  birth,  but  also  the  lofty  companionship  of  men  of 
genius  and  talent ;  often  the  two  met  in  the  same  man, 
as  with  Baldassare  himself. 

Strange  masques  and  lovely  eclogues  were  presented 
before  the  guests,  the  actors  being  drawn  from  their 
ranks  and,  since  the  little  plays  were  written  by  one  or 
more  among  them,  personal  allusions,  veiled  sarcasms, 
and  delicate  flatteries  which  would  have  been  lost  to  the 
world  at  large,  aroused  in  the  chosen  audience  "much 
approval  and  the  most  joyous  laughter."  There  were 
dances  too,  and  mock  battles  fought  to  a  measured 
time,  with  stately  steps  and  clash  of  blades.  Great 
stone  seats  over  which  rugs  were  thrown  were  arranged 
for  the  ease  of  the  company,  and  often  the  moon  rose  to 
find  the  lingering  guests,  loath  to  leave,  listening  to  the 
verses  recited  by  some  fair  girl  with  the  gift  of  impro- 
vising, or  vying  with  each  other  in  the  criticism  of  a 
recent  work  of  art  or  literature. 

Even  so  long  ago  as  the  thirteenth  century,  three 
hundred  years  before  the  white  light  of  the  Renaissance 
was  to  break  over  the  world,  the  love  of  gardens  awoke 
with  the  dawning  perception  of  what  we  mean  nowa- 
days by  social  intercourse  between  the  sexes,  and  the  art 
of  conversation  went  forth  into  the  green  world  of  grow- 

89 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

ing  things  hand  in  hand  with  the  new  birth  of  lyric  song. 
The  Minnesinger,  wandering  over  Germany,  sang  not 
only  of  his  lady,  but,  looking  about  him  and  discovering 
the  lily  and  the  rose,  the  freshness  of  spring  and  the 
bird  in  the  tree,  he  found  nature  to  be  beautiful  and 
celebrated  it  in  as  lovely  strophes  as  have  ever  been 
sung.  It  was  long  before  the  time  of  formal  gardens ; 
but  the  happy  knights  and  their  ladies  went  out  into  the 
green  meadows  and  flowering  woods,  holding  court: 

Where  played  a  flowing  fountain 

With  fresh  clear  life  inherent 

And  as  the  sun  transparent  .  .  . 

Their  ample  court  and  their  wide  hall 

Were  the  linden  green  and  tall, 

The  sunshine  and  the  shadow, 

The  spring  and  the  meadow, 

Grass,  flowers,  leaves,  and  blossom.  .   .   . 

These  lines  by  Gottfried  von  Strassburgh  date  back  to 
the  first  few  years  of  this  great  century.  It  was  a  time 
that  saw  the  beginning  of  much  we  now  term  modern ; 
and  the  perception  of  the  social  value  of  nature  assisted 
by  art  was  one  of  its  most  charming  discoveries. 

In  the  England  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  gardens 
as  well  as  the  society  were  less  formal,  simpler,  rougher 
than  the  Italian,  depending  more  on  nature  than  on  art 
for  their  appeal.  We  have  a  fine  picture  of  an  English 
festival  occurring  in  the  gardens  and  park  of  Kenilworth 
during  a  visit  of  Queen  Elizabeth  to  Lord  Leicester. 
As  the  maiden  queen  and  her  escort  entered  the  con- 

90 


THE   SOCIAL   SIDE   OF   GARDENS 

fines  of  the  earl's  grounds,  the  cavalcade  was  met  by  a 
train  of  sylvan  spirits  at  whose  head  danced  a  shepherd, 
singing  a  madrigal  that  vaunted  Elizabeth  under  the 
title  of  Diana,  while  the  nymphs  and  dryads  scattered 
fresh  flowers  in  her  path.  As  the  procession  moved  on, 
fairy  flutes  blew  from  the  woods  on  either  side  the 
path,  and  finally  Pan  appeared  with  attendants  in  fan- 
tastic costumes  to  represent  animals  and  mythological 
creatures,  and  offered  to  the  royal  guest  the  freedom  of 
his  green  domain.  Later,  amid  the  roses  and  mazes  of 
the  garden  an  al  fresco  meal  was  served  by  beautiful 
boys  dressed  as  Greeks  and  wearing  garlands.  Where- 
upon, it  is  related,  a  mischievous  and  fantastic  spirit 
took  possession  of  queen  and  courtiers  and  ladies-in- 
waiting.  Elizabeth,  "who  loved  a  romp,"  gave  free 
rein  to  her  fancy.  There  was  a  dance  on  the  lawn  that 
savored  of  village  merry-making,  and  not  a  grotto  nor 
a  bower  but  hid  a  pair  of  lovers. 

In  France  during  the  period  spanned  by  the  reigns  of 
Louis  XIV,  Louis  XV,  and  Louis  XVI  the  garden  as  a 
background  for  court  life  touched  its  apogee.  Exquisite 
fetes  were  given  toward  whose  perfection  the  king  him- 
self, as  well  as  the  foremost  artists  of  the  court  were 
eager  to  contribute.  Designed  on  a  magnificent  scale, 
the  gardens  in  and  near  Paris,  as  well  as  others  sur- 
rounding the  country  chateaux  of  the  haute  noblesse,  lent 
themselves  to  the  stately  ceremony  and  almost  incredible 
luxury  of  the  times.  Even  the  so-called  simplicity  of 

91 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

the  summer  days  of  Marie  Antoinette  at  the  little 
Trianon  was  a  silk  and  satin  simplicity,  with  diamonds 
for  dewdrops.  The  gardens  were  as  artificial  as  the 
manners,  and  tree  and  flower  almost  as  far  removed 
from  their  purely  natural  condition  as  were  the  lords 
and  ladies  from  the  naked  freedom  of  Adam  and  Eve. 
There  is  a  story  somewhere  in  St.  Simon's  Memoirs 
concerning  a  duchess  who  hated  the  confinement  of  a 
room,  and  who  always  led  her  lover  forth  into  the 
garden,  wandering  with  him  along  winding  paths  where 
the  larkspurs,  hedges,  and  rose-trees  grew  so  tall  as  to 
hide  from  view  whoever  passed  between  them.  Be- 
hind the  dreaming  pair,  at  a  discreet  distance,  followed 
a  servant  with  a  rake,  whose  duty  it  was  to  carefully 
obliterate  the  footprints  of  the  lovers,  and  to  leave  the 
path  as  smooth  and  fair  as  though  no  human  feet  had 
ever  touched  it.  This  garden  of  the  vanished  steps 
was  a  place  covering  several  acres,  and  sloping  down 
from  the  chateau  in  a  series  of  terraces,  with  marble 
fountains  in  the  center  of  each  throwing  fantastic  jets 
of  water  high  into  the  air,  and  surrounded  by  rows  of 
formal  trees  and  beds  of  flowers  as  brilliant  as  jewels. 
Another  lady  is  said  to  have  dearly  loved  the  moon- 
light, and  to  have  given  several  exquisite  entertain- 
ments in  her  gardens  by  its  soft  illumination.  On  one 
such  occasion  all  the  guests  were  asked  to  come  in 
white  raiment.  The  costumes  were  of  white  satin, 
cloth  of  silver,  and  embroidered  silks,  while  the  only 

92 


A  VISIT  ON  THE  LAWN  IN  THE  OLDEN  TIME 


THE   SOCIAL   SIDE   OF   GARDENS 

ornaments  worn  were  of  pearl  and  diamond.  Silver 
lamps  were  set  upon  the  stone  balustrades,  and  the 
night  culminated  in  a  dance  representing  Apollo  and 
the  nine  Muses  given  on  one  of  the  terraces  before 
a  dark  background  of  box  and  ilex. 

The  love  of  the  out-of-doors  as  a  place  for  social 
enjoyment  was  by  no  means  confined  to  the  rich  or  to 
the  aristocracy.  Hardly  a  village  but  had  its  tree- 
grown  common,  where  young  and  old  met  for  the  day's 
relaxation  after  working  hours,  the  old  to  gossip,  the 
young  for  trials  of  strength  and  dancing.  May-day  in 
an  English  village  of  the  "spacious  times"  must  have 
been  a  scene  worth  remembering.  The  May-pole,  reared 
in  the  center  of  the  green,  was  crowned  with  a  garland  of 
spring  flowers  and  wreathed  in  greenery.  From  it 
radiated  the  long  flower-trimmed  ribbons  to  be  held  by 
the  fairest  maids  of  the  country  round  as  they  went 
through  the  intricate  paces  of  their  dance,  keeping  time 
to  ballads  sung  by  the  merry  circle  of  young  men  in 
their  best  holiday  dress,  who,  at  a  given  moment, 
joined  in  the  dance  and  swept  their  sweethearts  away 
with  garlands  flung  about  their  necks  amid  the  laughter 
and  rough  jesting  of  the  jolly  crowd. 

Following  this  came  the  wrestling  matches,  the  single 
stick  bouts,  the  foot-races,  and  jumping  matches.  Prizes 
of  casks  of  ale,  butts  full  of  malmsey,  fat  pigs,  silver  pieces 
and  horses  bridled  with  silver  bits  were  offered,  and  the 
interest  in  these  events  was  so  intense  that  the  defeat  of 

95 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

a  favorite  was  often  the  signal  for  a  free  fight.  Then, 
as  evening  drew  on,  long  tables  were  spread  under  the 
trees,  loaded  down  with  huge  pasties  and  bowls  of  sack, 
great  quartern  loaves  and  roast  suckling  pigs. 

The  eighteenth  century  in  England  was  not  only  the 
time  of  the  drawing-room  reunions  of  wits,  blue-stock- 
ings, and  literary  folk  of  various  degrees,  but  also  of  a 
somewhat  ostentatious  return  to  nature ;  a  time  when  poet 
or  playwright  planted  his  own  garden  and  walked  therein 
or  bid  his  friends  to  tea  there,  with  a  careful  eye  of 
honest  approval  upon  the  excellent  sylvan  figure  he  cut 
on  his  trim  lawn  among  formal  parterres  and  neat 
hedges.  Nevertheless,  these  little  parties  must  have 
been  singularly  pleasing.  Pope's  place  at  Twickenham 
witnessed  gatherings  of  his  friends,  chosen  from  those 
with  whom  he  was  not  at  the  moment  quarreling,  gath- 
erings that  for  brilliancy  of  talk  and  variety  of  interest 
can  hardly  be  matched  in  tea-table  history.  Hither 
came  Gay,  Swift,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  Steele,  Richardson, 
Walpole,  with  many  another  famous  wit.  The  garden 
with  its  view  of  the  Thames  was  charmingly  secluded, 
with  an  arbor  of  rose  and  honeysuckle  where  Pope's 
mother  kept  her  tea-table.  "God  forbid  you  should  be 
as  destitute  of  the  social  comforts  of  life,  as  I  must  when 
I  lose  my  mother,"  Pope  once  wrote  to  Swift.  A  pretty 
picture  it  must  have  been,  the  old  lady  under  the  vine- 
covered  trellises,  bending  over  the  handleless  cups  and 
huge  teapot,  the  buttered  scones  and  cakes,  offering  her 

96 


THE   SOCIAL  SIDE   OF   GARDENS 

son's  hospitality  to  that  brilliant  group  to  whom 
conversation  was  an  absolute  necessity,  and  who  per- 
fected their  phrases  with  all  the  fervor  of  an  artist's 
devotion  to  his  art.  There  sat  Walpole,  his  bitter  wit 
etching  the  absent  for  the  laughter  of  the  present;  Gay, 
the  dreamer,  somehow  slipped  into  the  most  comfortable 
chair ;  Swift,  who  has  been  commending  Pope  upon  the 
subterranean  passage  from  the  house  into  the  garden, 
berating  Gay  for  laziness,  Bolingbroke  for  levity,  and 
man  in  general  for  existing.  The  long  shadows  stretch 
across  the  lawns  that  rise  gently  to  the  house,  and  every 
inch  of  the  garden  shows  its  master's  personal  care. 
Pope  loved  this  place  with  real  passion,  spending  much 
money  and  more  time  upon  it;  indeed,  several  of  his 
friends  in  their  letters  bewail  his  becoming  "  a  true  coun- 
try gentleman,  and  seen  no  more  in  town." 

To-day,  the  use  of  the  garden  is  far  more  generally 
understood  abroad  than  here  in  America.  England  is 
perhaps  preeminent  in  this  direction,  and  it  is  beyond 
dispute  that  there  is  a  charm  and  simplicity  to  country- 
house  entertaining  there  which  is  attained  nowhere  else. 
Its  careful  carelessness  is  among  the  most  delightful  of 
modern  achievements,  the  tact  with  which  personal 
freedom  is  mingled  with  the  social  duty  of  hostess  and 
guest  touching  upon  perfection.  It  is  the  garden, 
rather  than  '  the  house,  that  gives  the  key-note. 
The  most  charming  part  of  the  day  is  the  tea  hour 
on  the  terrace,  or  near  the  tennis-courts,  when  every 

97 


THE   LURE   OF  THE   GARDEN 

one  is  grouped  about  on  rugs  and  in  wicker  chairs, 
or  playing  at  bowls  or  croquet.  When  the  neigh- 
borhood friends  drop  in  on  horseback,  or  in  pony-chaise, 
hailing  each  other  cheerily,  coming  and  going  with  the 
utmost  informality,  lending  a  hand  in  the  games,  crowd- 
ing to  the  tea-table.  An  M.  P.  just  up  from  London, 
hastily  changed  to  the  flannels  consecrated  to  the  coun- 
try, with  a  cup  of  tea  in  one  hand  and  a  racket  in  the 
other,  stops  to  talk  eagerly — not  of  politics,  but  of  the 
new  rose-bed  he  has  set  out,  or  a  breed  of  dogs  he  is 
improving.  Near  by  a  group  of  women  are  discussing 
the  suffragette  situation  with  a  couple  of  literary  men, 
or  a  party  on  the  river  is  being  planned.  The  groups 
mingle,  dissolve,  form  new  combinations,  wander  away 
in  pairs,  or  depart  singly  on  various  errands  bent.  An 
ease,  an  informality  impossible  within  the  walls  of  a 
house  obtains  in  these  gardens,  gardens  valued  as  highly 
as  the  old  family  portraits,  dating  back  very  often  as  far 
as  the  family  history  itself,  and  perfectly  suited  to  the 
requirements  of  the  people  who  love  and  live  in  them. 
This  feeling  for  the  garden  as  a  social  factor  undoubt- 
edly exists  in  America,  but  in  England  it  is  general; 
hardly  a  cottage  but  has  its  little  bit  of  flower  and  vine, 
its  wall  overgrown  with  ivy  and  sweet  with  wall-flowers, 
where  the  family  may  sit  toward  evening  as  undisturbed 
by  outside  intrusion  as  the  people  at  the  manor-house. 
In  France  and  Italy,  too,  the  poorer  portion  of  the  popu- 
lation have  this  love  of  gardens.  Whenever  possible 

98 


THROUGH  GREEN  ARBORS 


THE   SOCIAL  SIDE   OF   GARDENS 

they  live  and  eat  in  them,  training  vines  to  keep  out  the 
alien  eye  quite  as  much  as  for  a  protection  against 
the  sun. 

There  are,  however,  many  exquisite  gardens  scattered 
all  over  the  United  States,  in  New  England,  in  the 
South,  in  the  West;  gardens  whose  owners  have  dis- 
covered the  precious  uses  to  which  they  may  be  put  and 
whose  recollection  is  sweet  to  the  guests  privileged  to 
enter  them.  I  recall  a  summer  afternoon  in  a  Maine 
garden  overlooking  the  shining  reaches  of  a  river.  The 
great  Colonial  house  merged  through  green  arbors  into 
the  beds  gay  with  corn-flowers  and  canterbury-bells, 
sweet  with  heliotrope  and  lily,  separated  each  from  each 
by  grassy  paths  edged  with  box,  and  given  seclusion  by 
rose-hung  wall  and  pergola.  The  small  group  sat  idly 
enough  among  the  fragrant  smells  and  gentle  sounds, 
flutterings  of  leaf  and  bird,  trickle  of  fountain,  sigh  of 
pines.  Tea  was  over,  and  the  west  was  smoldering 
with  intenser  color.  The  half-dozen  guests  were  all 
busy  persons  —  an  actress  who  is  world-renowned,  a 
playwright,  an  editor,  a  newspaper  woman,  a  couple  of 
artists.  The  desultory  talk  flowed  from  one  to  another, 
interspersed  by  utterly  contented  silences.  The  topics 
centered  upon  what  and  when  to  plant  "things,"  the 
massing  of  colors  in  beds,  the  joy  of  a  sun-dial,  the  va- 
garies of  certain  bulbs  or  slips  ;  not  one  but  hoped  some 
day  for  a  garden  of  his  own.  And  altogether  delightful 
as  were  the  days  and  the  amusements  of  that  hospitable 

101 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

week,  it  is  the  garden  hour  that  lingers  in  the  memory 
unforgetably,  with  its  indefinable  charm,  its  release  of 
the  spirit,  its  ease  and  irresponsibility.  The  garden  was 
enough;  no  one  need  exert  mind  or  body  to  provide 
entertainment  or  dispel  ennui;  with  the  result  that 
everybody,  throwing  the  social  burden  upon  com- 
plaisant nature,  became  exquisitely  his  actual  self,  meet- 
ing his  neighbor  on  a  different,  a  more  intimate  basis 
than  could  have  been  possible  elsewhere. 

Such  gardens  and  such  hours  are  multiplying  with 
us,  and  are  a  valuable  indication  of  our  increasing  sanity 
of  life,  our  developing  taste  and  realization  of  what  it  is 
that  is  truly  worth  while,  and  that  leisure  and  peace  and 
seclusion  are  assets  for  which  we  should  be  willing  to 
make  some  sacrifices. 


102 


GARDENS   AND   GOSSIPS 


IN  MEMORY'S  GARDEN 

BY   THOMAS    WALSH 

There  is  a  garden  in  the  twilight  lands 
Of  Memory,  where  troops  of  butterflies 

Flutter  adown  the  cypress  paths,  and  bands 
Of  flowers  mysterious  droop  their  drowsy  eyes. 

There  through  the  silken  hush  come  footfalls  faint 
And  hurried  through  the  vague  parterres ;  and  sighs, 

Whispering  of  rapture  or  of  sweet  content, 
Like  ceaseless  parle  of  bees  and  butterflies. 

And  by  one  lonely  pathway  steal  I  soon 
To  find  the  flowerings  of  the  old  delight 

Our  hearts  together  knew — when  lo,  the  moon 
Turns  all  the  cypress  alleys  into  white. 


'GOSSIP  IS  NOT  NECESSARILY  UNKIND. 


CHAPTER  V 
GARDENS  AND  GOSSIPS 

WHEN  one  reflects  how  much  of  life  is  taken 
up  by  talk,  what  an  amount  of  energy,  of 
toil,  is  expended  in  it;  how  most  things 
hang  upon  it,  how  the  entire  machinery  of  the  world 
would  crash  to  atoms  without  it;  when  one  realizes 
that  every  second  of  time  is  filled  with  the  ceaseless 
murmuring  of  millions  of  voices,  why,  one  begins  to 
understand  that  talk,  just  talk,  as  a  habit,  a  practice,  a 
necessity,  exceeds  all  other  human  activities  in  impor- 
tance, as  it  certainly  does  in  volume  and  continuity. 
Manifold  in  its  variety,  it  is  the  one  thing  indispensable 
to  every  one,  from  the  mumbling  savage  in  naked  bond- 
age to  the  earth  to  the  greatest  philosopher,  from  the 
youngest  to  the  oldest,  the  wisest  to  the  vainest. 
Everything  we  accomplish  owes  something  at  least  to 
talk ;  without  it  we  could  not  think,  and  even  in  our 
feelings  we  require  its  assistance.  Our  joy  is  height- 
ened, our  sorrow  relieved  by  it.  To  a  mother,  the 
moment  when  her  child  first  begins  to  use  speech  is 
unforgetable ;  and  love  itself,  if  it  were  dumb,  would 
lose  something  of  its  beauty. 

107 


THE  LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

Contemplating,  then,  the  stupendous  force  and  pre- 
ponderance of  talk  in  human  affairs,  it  seems  not  amiss 
to  devote  a  few  pages  to  the  extolling  of  the  garden's 
superior  advantages  as  a  place  for  conversation.  Nat- 
urally there  are  forms  of  talk  not  suitable  for  the 
garden — public  utterances,  lectures,  speeches,  society 
small  talk — but  for  gossip,  for  the  confidences  of  two 
congenial  souls  on  many  topics,  for  the  interchange  of 
intimate  reflections,  and  the  musings  of  two  persons 
content  to  shut  out  the  rest  of  the  world,  for  these  the 
garden  is  emphatically  the  place,  and  for  these  it  is  con- 
stantly being  employed. 

Gossip  is  not  necessarily  unkind ;  it  may  be  quite  as 
harmless  as  it  is  delightful,  and  ever  since  there  has 
been  a  bench  behind  a  cottage  in  the  shade  of  an  arbor, 
there  have  been  kindly'gossips  to  sit  upon  it.  Under 
the  benign  influence  of  the  surroundings,  both  word 
and  subject  will  tend  to  be  gracious,  and  gossip  in  a 
garden  prove  one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  comforting 
of  human  exercises. 

It  begins  in  infancy — you  can  watch  two  youngsters 
at  it,  tucked  close  together  in  the  shade  of  the  ornamental 
cherry,  where  their  tiny  doll's  table  is  set  out  with 
acorn-cups  and  seed-vessel  cheeses  and  a  finely 
fashioned  mud-pie.  The  little  mothers  have  forgot- 
ten their  fairy  feast,  however.  They  are  whispering 
and  laughing,  telling  secrets,  pretending  all  sorts  of 
magic  make-believe,  giggling  rapturously  over  the 

108 


GARDENS  AND  GOSSIPS 

humor  of  life  as  observed  from  their  own  particular 
standpoint. 

Later  on,  the  young  girls,  back  from  school  on  sum- 
mer holidays,  have  a  world  of  information  to  impart  to 
each  other  in  the  safe  company  of  the  flowers,  where  no 
one  will  intrude  upon  them.  Down  there  in  the  arbor 
under  the  honeysuckle  the  two  heads  bend  close  to- 
gether over  confidences  that  are  no  doubt  rather  foolish, 
gaged  by  our  standards,  but  which  are  very  necessary 
to  the  adolescent  heart.  Not  all  foolish,  either.  Some 
of  the  talk  of  these  young  creatures  is  filled  with  fine 
ambitions  and  noble  dedications.  There  will  be  a  good 
deal  of  silly  sentimentality  on  boys  and  parties  and  the 
pretty  frippery  of  clothes,  and  why  not  ?  But  there  will 
also  be  discussions  full  of  purpose  and  hope  and  dawn- 
ing knowledge.  Emerson  will  get  quoted  and  pages 
be  read  aloud  in  which  high  matters  are  spoken  of  and 
great  aims  set.  Possibly  the  tackle  forged  in  these 
long,  intimate  chats  between  a  couple  of  girls,  these 
chains  that  are  so  securely  to  hitch  the  wagon  to  its 
star,  will  prove  frail  as  silver  paper  in  the  coming  stress 
of  life.  Nevermind!  The  starshine  was  clear  enough 
for  a  while,  at  least,  and  the  two  maidens  will  hardly  be 
able  to  think,  in  after  days,  of  the  hours  in  the  old 
arbor  without  a  rush  of  tenderness.  Reality  may  have 
turned  out  to  be  different  from  their  shimmering  fore- 
casts, but  they  will  never  regret  having  made  them,  or 
having  believed  in  them. 

109 


THE   LURE  OF   THE   GARDEN 

Later  on,  it  is  Love  that  unlatches  the  gate  and  be- 
takes himself  to  the  gossip's  seat,  where  he  is  immedi- 
ately very  much  at  home.  For  of  the  many  places 
where  love  belongs,  a  garden  stands  first  and  foremost. 
Lovers  belong  in  gardens,  and  it  is  probably  the  in- 
stinctive recognition  of  this  fact  that  fills  the  park 
benches,  when  his  votaries  have  nothing  better  in  the 
garden  line  to  shelter  in. 

A  garden  in  the  moonlight,  consecrated  by  the  in- 
effable serenity  of  the  still  hour,  and  breathing  an 
intenser  fragrance  in  the  cool  freshness  following  upon 
a  day  of  heat  and  sun,  verily  murmurs  of  love,  so 
that  even  the  lonely  soul  most  dedicate  to  a  solitary 
existence  is  conscious  of  the  influence  as  he  wanders 
through  its  mazes.  And  when  it  is  two  young  people 
who  find  themselves  caught  in  that  silver  mesh,  hands 
meet  and  heads  lean  together  as  inevitably  as  a  hare- 
bell sways  on  its  stalk  or  a  rose  opens  its  crimson 
beauty  at  the  appointed  moment. 

The  words,  the  secrets  lovers  whisper  each  to  each 
while  the  clambering  moon-flowers  pause  to  listen  and 
the  white  moths  flutter  by  on  love  business  of  their 
own,  this  speech  of  love  can  never  be  translated  into  the 
language  of  ordinary  life.  True  enough  that  the  words 
used  are  identical  with  those  employed  in  commonplace 
affairs  and  between  persons  whose  hearts  are  keeping 
the  normal  beat.  But  these  same  words  are  full  of  oc- 
cult and  esoteric  meanings,  when  exchanged  by  lovers 

1 10 


GARDENS  AND   GOSSIPS 

in  the  silence  of  the  garden's  presence,  and  carry  a  mes- 
sage quite  different  from  what  they  bear  when  upon 
every-day  errands.  If  he  murmurs  that  he  has  waited 
an  eternity  for  this  special  moment  of  time,  the  phrase 
conveys  a  meaning  not  apparently  inherent  in  the  sim- 
ple words  themselves ;  he  might  address  precisely  the 
same  remark  to  his  office  boy,  for  instance,  and  there 
would  be  no  stirring  of  divinity  in  the  circumambient 
air.  The  Chinese  exemplify  this  peculiar  quality  in 
speech  more  clearly  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  for  they 
can  say  the  same  thing  and  give  it  any  of  half  a  dozen 
or  half  a  hundred  interpretations,  according  to  intona- 
tion and  inflection.  Every  lover  is  Chinese  enough  to 
be  able  to  talk  thus  to  his  beloved  in  a  language  of  his 
own,  no  matter  how  ordinary  the  words  he  uses. 

So  it  is  that  the  gossip  of  a  pair  of  lovers  will  not 
bear  repeating,  even  should  it  be  overheard.  It  is  the 
most  wonderful  of  all  the  intimate  talks  that  belong 
within  garden  walls,  but  it  is  practically  unintelligible 
to  every  one  else,  as  it  is  also  apt  to  be  entirely  confined 
to  the  two  who  are  talking,  having  little  or  no  relation 
to  any  other  human  being  or  event,  even  when  it  wan- 
ders into  the  future  and  predicts  the  most  exquisite 
miracles.  However,  though  we  cannot  understand 
these  whispers  and  the  soft  laughter  that  proceeds 
from  the  leafy  arbor  when  lovers  occupy  the  old  bench, 
we  ought  none  the  less  to  be  content  that  such  agree- 
able sounds  do  occasionally  proceed  from  it,  without 

ill 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

inquiring  too  curiously  as  to  their  exact  value ;  for 
at  the  worst  they  are  apt  to  be  as  brief  as  they  are 
strange. 

After  the  lovers'  transient  occupancy  is  over,  the  seat 
will  not  stand  empty  long.  Husband  and  wife  come  to 
it  to  discuss  the  manifold  issues  of  their  life,  from  the 
transplanting  of  a  pansy  bed  to  the  building  of  a  new 
home  or  the  future  of  a  child.  Sitting  thus,  sipping 
their  tea  in  the  midst  of  the  peaceful  hush  following  so 
pleasantly  upon  the  day's  labors  and  the  jarring  contact 
of  butcher-boys  and  wearisome  callers,  disputes  with 
the  "boss"  and  futile  struggles  against  predatory  mil- 
lionaires, the  two  chat  together,  knitting  up  care's  rav- 
eled sleave  with  serenity  renewed. 

"  Mary  says  she  's  going  to  leave,"  remarks  Madam, 
alluding  to  the  hardly  attained  cook.  Elsewhere  the 
statement  might  be  tremulous  with  tragedy ;  but  spoken 
comfortably  from  the  garden  chair,  with  its  convenient 
arm  upon  which  to  set  the  tea-cup,  the  announcement  is 
touched  with  a  sense  of  humor.  "What  are  mere 
cooks,"  it  seems  to  intimate,  "  beside  the  comedy  of 
their  amazing  tendency  toward  perpetual  motion?" 

As  for  him,  he  tells  her  that  the  office  force  is  to  be 
increased  at  last,  and  informs  her  that  Bennet  has  a 
head  like  a  pin,  and  could  n't  be  trusted  to  turn  a  cor- 
ner; but  the  remark  carries  no  sense  of  bitterness. 
Whatever  subject  is  discussed,  only  round,  pleasant 
words  are  spoken;  and  though  the  gossiping  of  these 

112 


A  GARDEN  PATH 


GARDENS   AND   GOSSIPS 

two  may  not  much  resemble  the  lovers'  mystery  of 
talk,  may  indeed  confine  itself  to  the  most  ordinary 
topics  and  be  entirely  understandable  of  the  multitude, 
yet  who  shall  deny  it  its  own  peculiar  quality,  its  note 
of  home?  After  all,  the  garden  that  listened  so  ten- 
derly to  the  lovers,  need  not  despise  the  conversation 
of  this  maturer  couple,  hobnobbing  so  quietly,  and  ap- 
parently only  concerned  with  servant  and  office  and 
bread-and-butter  problems.  Possibly  an  even  deeper 
miracle  lies  within  this  matter-of-fact  chatter  than  the 
lovers  themselves  were  cognizant  of. 

But  these  are  by  no  means  all  who  come  to  ex- 
change confidences  in  the  shady  nook.  The  white- 
aproned  nurse-maid  and  her  friend  sit  here,  watching 
their  charges,  the  rich  Irish  flowing  in  an  unbroken 
stream,  with  Peggy  this  and  Norah  that,  and  "Sure 
it  's  a  wonder  Tom  don't  make  his  meanin'  clear,"  or 
"'Tis  a  pretty  dress  ye  had  on  at  mass,  Annie,  would 
ye  be  afther  tellin'  me  where  ye  got  the  same  ?"  "Will 
ye  look  at  the  childer,  in  the  middle-midst  of  the  nas- 
turshuns,  glory  be  to  God!"  Or  it  may  be  a  hit  at  a 
mutual  acquaintance:  "What,  old  Mrs.  Blake,  that  lives 
by  the  car-track  ?  Well,  well,  one  niver  can  say  what 
nixt!" 

Perhaps,  of  all  the  various  forms  of  gossip  overheard 
by  the  garden,  the  loveliest  is  that  between  a  young  and 
an  old  person  who  are  friends.  Real  friendship  be- 
tween the  generations  is  rare,  but  when  it  exists  it  is  of 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

the  finest.  That  youth  is  fortunate  who  can  pour  his 
perplexities  into  the  ear  of  an  older  man  or  woman,  and 
who  knows  a  comradeship  and  an  understanding  ex- 
ceeding in  beauty  the  facile  friendships  created  by  like 
interests  and  common  pursuits ;  and  fortunate  too  the 
girl  who  is  able  to  impart  the  emotions  and  ideas 
aroused  in  her  by  her  early  meetings  with  the  world 
and  life  to  some  one  old  in  experience  but  comprehend- 
ingly  young  in  heart.  Both  of  them  will  remember 
those  hours  long  after  the  garden  gate  has  closed  be- 
hind their  friend  forever;  as  long,  indeed,  as  they  re- 
member anything  that  went  to  the  making  of  the  best 
in  them. 

Besides  all  these,  with  whom  the  garden  is  so  wel- 
come as  the  fittest  spot  for  converse,  there  is  another 
type  of  gossip  to  whom  the  garden  is  preeminently 
suited,  and  that  is  the  old.  The  old  men  and  women 
love  it;  its  sheltered  sweetness  renews  their  youth  for 
them,  and  through  its  haze  of  green  and  gold  the  past 
shines  luminously,  warm  and  fair.  There  they  sit,  the 
two  ancient  cronies,  rather  toward  the  sunny  end  of  the 
bench,  recalling  a  life,  or  at  least  all  those  pretty  acts 
and  happy  days  that  build  up,  in  the  memory,  a 
glorified  retrospect  of  life,  in  which  the  harsher  lines 
and  darker  shadows  have  faded  out.  For  the  alchemy 
of  time  has  the  fortunate  faculty  of  preserving  what  is 
radiant  and  happy  rather  than  the  reverse ;  so  that  the 
two  old  friends,  preluding  their  remarks  with,  "  Do  you 

116 


THE  PATH  BY  THE  LONG  POND 


GARDENS   AND   GOSSIPS 

remember?"  will  tend  to  the  mention  of  old  jokes,  old 
sweethearts,  old  triumphs  and  gay  boyish  escapades, 
rather  than  the  disappointments,  losses,  and  regrets  the 
vanished  years  have  dealt  them. 

So  it  is  that  an  old  garden  is  full  of  confidences,  and 
quite  as  sweet  with  human  hopes  and  fancies  as  with 
the  breath  of  flowers.  Odd  and  tender  memories  drift 
about  in  it,  and  the  thoughts  of  persons  far  away  will 
often  turn  to  itv  joining  the  many  gentle  ghosts  that 
haunt  the  paths  and  arbors  when  the  moon  is  abroad. 
It  is  difficult  to  think  of  a  better  thing  for  a  nice  ghost 
to  do,  so  long  as  it  is  careful  not  to  disturb  the  new  pair 
of  lovers  who  have  this  moment  pushed  open  the  gate  ; 
a  hint  we  also  may  do  well  to  observe. 


119 


GARDENS  OF  SOME 
WELL-KNOWN  PEOPLE 


IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

BY    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 

Through  the  garden  sunset-window 

Shines  the  sky  of  rose ; 
Deep  the  melting  red,  and  deeper, 

Lovelier  it  grows. 

Musically  falls  the  fountain; 

Twilight  voices  chime; 
Visibly  upon  the  cloudlands 

Tread  the  feet  of  Time. 

Evening  winds  from  down  the  valley 

Stir  the  waters  cool ; 
Break  the  dark,  empurpled  shadows 

In  the  marble  pool. 

Rich  against  the  high-walled  grayness 

The  crimson  lily  glows, 
And  near,  O  near,  one  well-loved  presence 

Dream-like  comes  and  goes. 


•ward  si 


VISTAS  OF  WHITE  AND  GREEN. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GARDENS   OF    SOME    WELL- 
KNOWN    PEOPLE 

1  "W~  AYING  out  grounds  may  be  considered  a  liberal 
art,  in  some  sort  like  poetry  or  painting," 
-• — *  wrote  Wordsworth,  who  himself  dearly  loved 
a  garden.  And  it  is  true  that  artists  generally,  as  well 
as  literary  persons,  take  easily  to  the  "  laying  out  of 
grounds."  In  England  most  men  and  women  in  these 
professions  have  their  own  places  and  live  in  the  coun- 
try ;  and  here  in  America  many  of  them  are  following 
suit,  and,  climbing  up  among  the  hills  or  wandering  by 
the  sea,  they  stop  wherever  the  attraction  is  strongest, 
and  proceed  to  build  themselves  homes  and  make  gar- 
dens round  about.  Most  of  these  places  are  rather 
small  than  large,  tending  toward  simple  effects,  being 
more  the  result  of  personal  taste  and  labor  than  a  high 
expenditure.  And  there  is  no  better  argument  that  a 
lovely  garden  is  within  the  reach  of  very  moderate 
means  than  a  visit  to  some  of  these  charming  and  in- 
dividual creations,  whose  owners  have  not  alone  suc- 
ceeded in  satisfying  their  particular  requirements,  but 

I25 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

have  given  excellent  object-lessons  in  suiting  house 
and  grounds  to  each  other  and  both  to  the  surround- 
ing country. 

Personality  in  a  garden  is  as  unmistakable  as  it  is 
in  a  human  being,  and  as  elusive.  The  garden  that 
expresses  personality  is  rarely  the  work  of  the  pro- 
fessional landscape  artist.  It  is  a  quality  born  only 
where  the  man  or  the  woman  who  loves  the  place 
and  means  to  live  there  plans  and  contrives  and  labors 
to  fulfil  an  individual  demand ;  a  garden  so  constructed 
contains  more  than  just  the  stones  and  green  growth 
that  meet  the  eye,  in  the  same  manner  that  a  picture  is 
more  than  its  paint  and  canvas,  or  even  the  cunning 
workmanship  that  has  skilfully  placed  the  one  upon  the 
other.  And  this  personality  is  precisely  the  peculiar 
characteristic  of  most  of  the  gardens  in  the  midst  of 
which  these  writing  and  painting  folk  have  set  up  their 
habitations. 

Perhaps  the  best  known  of  such  places  are  those 
among  the  Cornish  hills  in  New  Hampshire,  where  a 
colony  of  professional  people  have  been  building  and 
gardening  for  some  five  and  twenty  years,  and  have 
evolved  a  type  of  garden  that  combines  something  of 
the  flavor  of  its  wild  setting  with  a  distinct  feeling  of 
home,  gardens  that  are  American  and  at  the  same 
time  intensely  individual.  Various  they  are,  some 
scarcely  larger  than  a  tennis-court,  and  simple  as  a 
wild  pink ;  others  occupying  a  considerable  space  and 

126 


\VHKRE  HOUSE  AND  GARDEN  MEET 


GARDENS    OF    WELL-KNOWN    PEOPLE 

stately  with  pergolas  and  marble  pools;  but  none  among 
them  handed  over  to  alien  builders,  any  more  than  the 
houses  were  furnished  by  an  interior  decorator. 

There  is  Maxfield  Parrish's  garden,  partly  inclosed 
in  white  walls  and  dominated  by  splendid  oaks,  a  gar- 
den that  is  hardly  more  than  a  wide  walk  bordered  by 
snowy  spiraea  and  leading  to  the  loggia,  with  a  few  vivid 
beds  whose  fragrance  blows  into  the  windows ;  a  place 
more  like  a  handful  of  exquisitely  arranged  flowers  in 
a  stone  vase,  augmenting  the  home  feeling  and  home 
loveliness,  than  something  apart  and  important  in  itself. 
The  house  is  admirably  suited  to  its  situation  and  the 
placing  of  the  trees  and  its  hill  view  are  true  portions 
of  its  garden. 

Rose  Standish  Nichols,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a 
garden  complete  in  itself,  separated  from  the  house  by 
a  grass-grown  terrace,  and  inclosed  within  a  rough 
stone  wall,  low  and  broad.  The  paths  cross  each  other 
symmetrically,  meeting  in  the  center  at  a  clear  circular 
pool,  over  which  an  apple-tree  spreads  its  twisted  boughs, 
an  old  tree  dating  before  the  "first  resident"  among 
all  the  artist  colony.  The  beds  are  long,  bordered  with 
grass,  and  the  color  scheme  is  enchanting,  changing 
with  the  changing  seasons,  but  harmonious  always, 
daring,  too,  as  nature  herself  is  daring.  A  certain  care- 
less, joyful  effect  in  the  planting,  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  shrubs,  the  use  of  fruit-trees,  and  the  irregularity  of 
the  gray  old  slabs  that  make  the  wall,  mitigate  what  in 

129 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

less  beauty-wise  hands  might  have  proved  too  severe 
a  plan.  A  great  sense  of  peace  pervades  this  garden, 
accentuated  by  the  sky-reflecting  pool  with  its  encircling 
benches  and  sheltering  tree. 

In  quite  a  different  setting  is  the  sea-shore  place 
owned  by  Cecilia  Beaux,  at  the  farther  end  of  Gloucester 
Point,  some  three  or  four  miles  from  the  ancient  fishing 
town.  The  long  yellow  road  that  leads  to  it  passes  by 
many  a  row  of  drying-sheds  where  the  white  cod  glisten 
in  the  sun,  and  then  on  by  the  radiant  bay  where  chil- 
dren are  playing  in  and  out  of  the  water,  to  where  the 
voice  of  the  almighty  ocean  sounds  a  mighty  diapason 
beyond  the  line  of  dunes  that  meet  the  eye  at  the  Point's 
extremity.  The  house  is  entirely  hidden  from  the  road 
by  a  tangled  thicket  of  tupelo-trees,  a  small  and  some- 
what fantastic  tree  indigenous  to  the  country,  whose 
branches,  interlacing  overhead,  form  a  continuous 
canopy  of  green,  under  which  narrow  paths  twist  and 
cross,  astir  with  moving  shadows.  A  pool  as  full  of 
mysterious  reflections  as  a  magic  mirror  lies  at  the 
intersection  of  several  of  these  paths,  and  as  you 
wander  through  the  miniature  forest  you  are  forever 
conscious  of  the  close  companionship  of  a  murmur- 
ing brook,  continuously  heard  but  only  occasionally 
glimpsed.  Wild  flowers  and  birds  of  many  species 
flourish  here,  apparently  utterly  unaware  of  human 
proximity ;  which,  indeed,  you  doubt  yourself  until  the 
sly  path  suddenly  deposits  you  precisely  at  the  open 

130 


GARDENS    OF    WELL-KNOWN    PEOPLE 

door  of  a  shell-colored  cottage,  and  leaves  you  to  return 
upon  itself  into  the  green  shade. 

Against  the  grayish-creamy  cottage  wall  stand  lordly 
hollyhocks,  and  vines  clamber  gaily  toward  the  second- 
story  windows.  Cloisters,  many-arched,  of  brick  whose 
pink  glows  through  their  whitewash,  reach  out  into  the 
garden ;  or,  possibly,  it  is  the  garden  that  through  them 
attains  the  house.  Climbing  roses  and  clematis  outline 
these  arches,  while  small,  vivid  blossoms  crowd  each 
other  in  the  narrow  beds  close  to  the  house.  Toward 
the  sea,  from  a  terrace  floored  with  brick  and  guarded 
by  a  low  -and  very  broad  balustrade  of  stone  slabs 
on  short  brick  pillars,  the  view  lies  open  to  the  sky. 
A  lawn  stretches  down  to  a  wattled  fence,  over  which 
crimson  roses  tumble,  while  above  it  clumps  of  lark- 
spur raise  their  tall  spikes,  vying  with  the  intense  blue 
of  the  bay.  Where  the  dense  tangle  of  the  little  wood 
ends,  other  garden  flowers  grow  in  a  charming,  untram- 
meled  fashion,  and  an  ancient  carved  marble  bench  or 
two  from  Italy  wait  in  an  immortal  calm  for  some 
leisure-loving  soul.  Practically  that  is  all  there  is  to 
the-  garden,  but  it  seems  to  be  as  big  as  the  world,  it 
is  so  entirely  sufficient,  so  wild  and  yet  so  petted,  so 
harmonious  with  the  immensities  of  sea  and  sky  that 
wrap  it  round,  so  intimately  connected  with  the  house 
to  which  it  belongs.  A  flame  of  scarlet  in  the  right 
spot,  a  tree  of  noble  form,  a  sense  of  gentle  peace  and 
sure  protection,  the  companionship  of  house  and  bosket, 

133 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

lawn  and  running  brook,  the  purple  shadows  under  the 
arches  contrasting  with  the  green  dusk  of  the  wood ; 
many  a  man  has  spent  his  thousands  on  a  vast  estate, 
and  never  compassed  such  beauty  as  this. 

Another  small  garden  that  is  yet  great  enough  to 
lap  the  spirit  in  complete  content  is  the  one  made  by 
the  late  Richard  Watson  Gilder  on  his  place  in  Tyring- 
ham  Valley.  The  house,  old,  wide-spreading,  infin- 
itely homelike,  is  backed  by  the  uprising  hills  clothed 
in  pine  and  hardwood,  and  faces  upon  a  meadow  across 
the  road,  through  which  flows  a  wild  brook  bordered 
by  willows.  To  the  left,  inclosed  within  high  walls 
over  which  the  vines  hang  down,  hides  the  little,  infin- 
itely precious  flower  garden,  separated  from  the  rougher 
elements  outside,  kept  safe  as  a  jewel  in  a  casket.  You 
open  the  gate  straight  upon  a  path  that  leads  to  an 
oblong  marble  basin  brimming  with  water  so  clear  as 
to  be  almost  invisible,  were  it  not  for  the  rose  leaves 
afloat  upon  it.  The  flower  beds  are  set  in  a  frame  of 
grass,  and  the  walls  thick-hung  with  climbers  of  many 
varieties,  against  which  tall,  spiky  flowers  stand  primly. 
The  garden  is  a  happy  arrangement  of  straight  lines 
softened  by  the  growth  of  the  plants  and  the  harmony 
of  colors.  At  one  side  a  charming  tea-house  shelters  a 
table  and  a  few  inviting  chairs,  a  wonderful  spot  in 
which  to  dream  away  a  summer  afternoon  or  to  sit  in 
idle  conversation  with  a  congenial  spirit.  When  the 
moon  comes  into  this  garden  and  sets  the  shadows  of 


GARDENS    OF    WELL-KNOWN    PEOPLE 

its  encircling  trees  to  weaving  curious  patterns,  it  affects 
you  like  the  conjured  marvel  of  an  Arabian  tale.  A 
strange  hush  falls  upon  it,  the  hidden  blossoms  spill 
out  their  most  potent  fragrance,  and  within  the  high 
walls  the  cup  of  beauty  overflows. 

A  garden  of  a  different  type  is  the  one  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Wharton,  lying  nearer  to  Lenox.  Her  place  com- 
mands a  magnificent  view  of  the  nearer  and  farther  hills 
for  miles,  with  half  a  dozen  lakes  flashing  to  the  sun. 
The  house  itself,  adapted  from  an  English  model  that 
drew  from  the  Italian,  dominates  a  hilltop,  and  is  at- 
tained by  sweeping  drives  and  surrounded  by  down- 
dropping  lawns  shaded  by  fine  trees.  On  one  side 
there  is  a  rock  garden  of  great  beauty,  and  the  shrub- 
bery, curving  like  an  approaching  wave,  edges  the 
lawns  nobly.  But  it  is  the  double  sunken  gardens,  set 
down  into  the  hill,  that  are  the  distinction  of  the  place. 
Each  has  its  central  fountain,  surrounded  by  geometri- 
cally shaped  beds  separated  by  narrow  gravel  paths 
and  planted  with  brilliant  flowers  of  contrasted  hues. 
At  their  lower  edge  stand  marble  walls  in  the  Italian 
style,  with  openings  that  permit  exquisite  glimpses  of 
the  view,  and,  at  the  same  time,  form  a  lovely  back- 
ground for  a  few  of  the  taller  flowers  and  some  choice 
rose-trees. 

Looking  down  upon  these  two  gardens,  separated 
from  each  other  by  the  terraced  lawns,  as  you  stand 
on  the  broad  veranda  of  the  villa,  the  glory  of  their 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

coloring  actually  vibrates  in  the  sunlight;  yet,  framed 
as  they  are  in  spacious  green,  they  do  not  clash  with 
the  distant  prospect.  A  sensation  of  space,  even  of 
magnificence,  is  the  controlling  factor  of  the  impression 
produced ;  but  the  place  lacks  the  intimate  charm  of 
the  Gilders'  garden,  or  the  one  belonging  to  Miss  Beaux, 
the  sense  of  personal  and  loving  supervision  notable  in 
them  and  in  the  Cornish  places. 

This  special  spiritual  quality,  however,  so  difficult 
to  define  and  yet  so  essential  to  the  true  garden, 
is  by  no  means  restricted  to  the  small  estates.  Mrs. 
Gardiner's  place  at  Brookline  is  redolent  of  it,  large  as 
it  is.  Her  Italian  garden,  inclosed  within  rose-hung 
walls  of  old  brick  and  stucco,  with  its  vine-grown  per- 
gola, its  antique  statues,  and  the  flaming  splendor  of  its 
long  beds,  breathes  this  intimate  charm,  as  does  the 
spring  garden,  sheltered  behind  its  high,  cool  hedges  of 
evergreen,  into  whose  fairy  ring  April  and  May  bring 
all  their  fragrant  wealth.  And  not  only  these  seques- 
tered spots,  but  the  wide-spreading  lawns,  the  tree- 
honored  drives,  the  great  banks  of  rhododendron  and 
sheets  of  iris,  hold  fast  this  garden  soul,  captured  some- 
how and  unmistakable,  like  music  rendered  by  a  great 
player,  where  feeling  transcends  technique  while  remain- 
ing firm-based  upon  it. 

The  contrast  between  the  gardens  I  have  been  de- 
scribing and  others  of  their  kind  with  the  usual  subur- 
ban abortion  merits  consideration.  The  difference  is 

136 


THE  POPLARS  AT  AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS'S  HOUSE, 
CORNISH 


GARDENS    OF    WELL-KNOWN    PEOPLE 

not  one  of  expense.  It  is  not  with  numberless  acres 
nor  an  unlimited  bank-account  that  a  garden  is  to  be 
made.  Perhaps  the  only  real  gardens  are  those  that 
first  took  shape  in  the  mind  of  some  one  who  loved  them, 
and  found  his  joy  in  realizing  them  by  the  actual  labor 
of  his  hands.  At  all  events,  Cornish  and  Green  Alley 
teach  a  valuable  lesson  as  well  as  a  lovely  one,  a  les- 
son good  to  ponder  over  and  comfortable  to  learn. 


SOME  GARDEN  VICES 


THE  ROSE 

BY   WILLIAM    BROWNE    OF   TAVISTOCK 

A  Rose,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North, 

Grew  in  a  little  garden  all  alone ; 
A  sweeter  flower  did  Nature  ne'er  put  forth, 

Nor  fairer  garden  yet  was  never  known  : 
The  maidens  danced  about  it  morn  and  noon, 

And  learned  bards  of  it  their  ditties  made ; 
The  nimble  fairies  by  the  pale-faced  moon 

Watered  the  root  and  kiss'd  her  pretty  shade. 
But  well-a-day  !  — the  gardener  careless  grew ; 

The  maids  and  fairies  both  were  kept  away, 
And  in  a  drought  the  caterpillars  threw 

Themselves  upon  the  bud  and  every  spray. 
God  shield  the  stock !      If  heaven  send  no  supplies, 
The  fairest  blossom  of  the  garden  dies. 


VII 


a   game 
contrary, 
haractem 
mpjeasi 


ur  gard 


o  a  frantk  indulgenc 
worst  km*  is,  a  habu 
angerous.      Their  c 
,  together  with  all  tfi 
essed  into  a  b'x>^oftf 
,  Ts  truly  am; 


"THE  MILDEST  AND  BEST-BEHAVED  OF  GARDENS. 


CHAPTER  VII 
SOME    GARDEN   VICES 

Eit   not   be    imagined    that   a    garden    is    an 
unmixed  paradise.     On  the  contrary,  gardens 
possess   extremely  vicious    characteristics,    as 
well  as  no  small  capacity  for  arousing  unpleasing  traits 
in  the  people  to  whom  they  belong;  you  will  need,  in 
fact,  to  keep  a  close  watch  both  on  your  garden  ariu 
yourself,  if  you  wish  to  maintain  either  in  approximate 
perfection. 

Some  gardens  tend  to  a  frantic  indulgence  in  insects 
and  worms  of  the  very  worst  kinds,  a  habit  difficult  to 
break,  insidious  and  dangerous.  Their  capacity  for 
outwitting  the  gardener,  together  with  all  the  members 
of  his  household,  impressed  into  a  too-often  unwilling 
service  of  extermination,  is  truly  amazing.  Here  and 
there,  for  instance,  a  garden  will  acquire  the  cutworm 
habit,  and  once  this  is  firmly  fixed  upon  it  it  will  display 
endless  energy,  cunning,  and  devotion  in  finding  and 
pampering  these  noxious  creatures,  yielding  to  them 
its  finest  plants  and  fairest  blossoms,  sheltering  and 
hiding  them  beyond  your  utmost  skill  to  discover, 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

guiding  them  past  your  traps  and  poisons,  and  in  and 
out  of  the  tin  collars  with  which  you  have  desperately 
sought  to  protect  your  best  beloved  seedlings.  You 
may  be  up  early  and  down  late,  but  the  garden,  work- 
ing with  a  feverish  frenzy  in  the  service  of  its  enemy, 
obsessed  like  a  drug  fiend  with  the  passion  for  its  own 
extermination,  is  more  than  apt  to  win  in  its  suicidal 
intent,  and  to  leave  its  beds  and  borders  bare  of  some 
of  its  loveliest  possessions. 

If,  however,  you  do  succeed  in  tracking  down  and 
slaying  the  last  of  those  fat  pirates,  do  not  dream  that 
you  have  conquered  your  garden's  predilections  toward 
evil  behavior.  It  has  untold  resources  of  wickedness, 
and  once  it  has  set  foot  upon  the  broad  pathway  of 
destruction,  marches  merrily  along,  undeterred  by  warn- 
ings and  examples. 

One  of  the  mischievous  delights  of  a  thoroughly  cor- 
rupt garden  is  to  fill  all  its  roses  with  a  horrid  yellow 
and  greenish  beetle,  so  that,  should  you  bend  to  smell 
or  to  pluck  one  of  these  queen  flowers,  crimson,  yellow, 
or  white,  a  mass  of  scrabbling,  long-legged,  and  hard- 
shelled  insects  begin  to  agitate  themselves,  crawling 
out  upon  your  nose  or  hands,  while  the  half-blown 
petals  tumble  shamefully  to  earth,  corroded  and  gnawed 
beyond  recognition. 

Lacking  these,  there  are  myriads  of  infinitesimal  but 
hateful  creatures  which  a  garden,  smiling  deceitfully 
from  its  multicolored  faces,  will  diligently  hang  on  twig 

146 


A  PERGOLA 


SOME   GARDEN  VICES 

and  stalk,  staining  the  insects  a  harmonizing  green  or 
brown,  so  that  they  are  not  to  be  distinguished  until, 
seizing  the  stem  of  a  sweet-pea  or  a  poppy,  your  hand 
makes  a  smeary  mess  of  myriads,  each  of  which  has 
been  sucking  the  life  juice  from  the  plant  it  helps  to 
encumber.  Even  the  mildest  and  best-behaved  of  gar- 
dens is  liable  to  sudden  lapses,  to  hideous  indulgences. 
Sometimes  you  are  tempted  to  believe  that  only  the 
gardener  is  ever  aware  of  the  power  and  the  omnipresence 
of  evil.  Some  gardens  simply  turn  lazy.  Encourage 
them,  prod  them,  feed  them,  and  water  them  as  you 
will,  they  retain  an  obstinate  inertness.  They  grow 
nothing,  they  do  nothing,  they  gape  shamelessly  in  your 
face  throughout  the  radiant  summer.  Or  else  they  turn 
to  weeds.  Weeds  are,  of  course,  a  constant  tempta- 
tion to  gardens,  even  those  of  the  strongest  charac- 
ter and  finest  manners.  Hardly  any  garden  but  will 
devote  twice  the  time  and  trouble  to  raising  some  par- 
ticularly ugly  weed  than  it  can  be  induced  to  bestow 
on  the  up-bringing  of  your  loveliest  annuals  or  most 
carefully  cherished  perennials.  Human  mothers  are 
said  often  to  prefer  their  misformed  or  wayward  chil- 
dren to  the  good  and  beautiful  ones.  Gardens  reveal 
this  trait  to  a  dismaying  extent.  The  pity  and  love 
shown  to  its  ugliest  weed  by  the  average  garden  is 
touching,  if  it  were  not  so  infuriating.  It  will  spare 
no  pains  to  convey  to  this  voracious  plant  all  the  deli- 
cately prepared  food  destined  for  your  lilies  or  your 

149 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

phlox,  will  discover  the  utmost  art  in  draining  its  water 
toward  the  thick  roots  of  its  favorite,  give  it  sun  and 
shadow,  sweat  and  labor  for  it.  If  you  snatch  the 
hateful  progeny  from  its  arms,  leave  only  the  slightest 
portion  of  root  behind,  and  that  patient,  devoted  garden 
will  nurse  the  battered  and  wounded  thing  back  again 
to  life  and  health,  to  flaunt  triumphantly  in  bed  and 
border. 

Foiled  of  its  propensities  for  bugs  and  weeds,  a  gar- 
den has  other  ways  of  annoying  you.  Sometimes  it 
manifests  what  looks  like  the  healthiest  interest  in  de- 
veloping whatsoever  plants  you  give  it  to  the  lustiest 
growth  imaginable ;  but  it  confines  this  growth  to  leaf 
and  branch,  allowing  not  so  much  as  one  tiny  floweret 
to  appear.  At  other  times  it  turns  its  attention  to 
frustrating  your  color  schemes,  changing  everything 
magenta,  or  bursting  out  in  screaming  yellow  where 
you  had  planned  a  heavenly  harmony  of  blues. 
Again,  refusing  to  grow  grass  in  the  circle  around  the 
sun-dial,  it  assiduously  struggles  to  bring  it  up  in  clumps 
and  patches  in  the  paths.  Occasionally,  a  garden  will 
become  addicted  to  a  spindly  habit.  Plant  what  you 
will,  everything  shoots  up  on  long,  sickly  stems,  with 
wads  of  leaf  and  pale  flowers  high  in  the  air.  Or  pos- 
sibly it  will  take  a  contrary  direction,  and  shrubs  that 
ought  to  bear  up  bravely  will  lie  lankly  on  the  ground, 
while  even  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks  show  short  and 
squat  of  limb. 


GRASS-BORDERED  BEDS 


SOME   GARDEN  VICES 

But  not  only  the  garden  is  delivered  over  to  a  multi- 
tude of  sins.  The  gardener  is  by  no  means  exempt. 
There  are  gardeners  that  are  among  the  most  trying 
specimens  of  humanity,  crammed  with  cantankerous 
ways  and  a  heavy  cross  to  those  with  whom  they  come 
into  constant  contact.  The  grumpy  and  short-tempered 
gardener  is  one  of  the  fixed  characters  of  fiction,  the 
gnarled  old  man,  despotic  within  his  hedges,  treating  the 
most  legitimate  intruder  into  his  domain  like  a  thief  or 
a  murderer,  and  regarding  the  wishes  or  the  commands 
of  his  employer  as  beneath  contempt 

But  beside  this  complete  specimen  of  garden  de- 
pravity, there  are  acquired  vices  that  seize  upon  the 
most  amiable,  undermining  and  wrecking  the  noblest. 
Chief  among  these  is  the  garden  annual,  or  nursery  and 
seed-catalogue  habit.  Persons  have  been  known  to 
develop  this  pernicious  vice  to  such  an  extent  that  no 
other  literature  is  allowed  in  their  house,  and  the  dis- 
cussion of  any  other  subject  tabooed.  The  arrival  of  a 
new  bunch  of  these  highly  colored  and  disingenuous 
publications  is  feverishly  awaited,  and,  once  in  hand,  a 
slave  to  this  habit  cannot  be  lured  away  from  their 
perusal.  Business,  domestic  ties,  and  the  sweet  uses 
of  society,  all  fall  before  the  tyrant.  Hour  after  hour 
the  victim  is  to  be  seen  bent  over  the  pages,  marking 
them  up  with  occult  signs,  turning  down  corners,  cutting 
out  segments,  and  writing  dozens  upon  dozens  of  letters 
concerning  the  items  thus  distinguished. 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

Should  one  of  these  miserable  catalogues  be  mislaid, 
the  entire  household  is  turned  upside  down.  Unkind 
accusations  and  violent  reproaches  are  poured  out  on 
the  various  members  of  the  unhappy  family;  the  lost 
catalogue,  it  appears,  contained  data  of  the  highest  im- 
portance, priceless  scribblings  on  the  margins,  infor- 
mation and  observation  worth  their  weight  in  gold. 
Despair  and  suspicion  reign  until  the  thing  is  found ; 
and  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  lost  magazine  or  catalogue 
is  one  of  the  awe-inspiring,  unexplainable  facts  of  exis- 
tence. There  is  no  spot  too  small  for  it  to  crawl  into, 
no  place  so  obvious  but  it  can  lie  there  unobserved.  If 
there  is  a  fire  within  reach,  it  is  certain  to  have  betaken 
itself  into  the  hottest  portion,  and  to  have  spared  no 
pains  in  getting  its  important  parts  burned.  If  there 
is  an  old  closet  to  be  found  that  has  not  been  opened 
for  years,  it  is  invariably  discovered  to  be  jammed 
with  such  lost  publications,  though  naturally  such  dis- 
covery is  not  made  until  the  time  of  its  usefulness  is 
past. 

Another  peril  in  the  seed-annual  habit  lies  in  the  de- 
pression its  indulgence  is  sure  to  bring  about.  No  amount 
of  experience  teaches  their  victim  that  they  are  pure 
fiction,  based  on  a  perverted  imagination,  of  lying  and 
unstable  character.  The  pictures  they  contain,  like  the  text 
that  babbles  rapturously  through  them,  have  no  relation 
to  the  actual  product  of  root  and  seed  as  they  are  planted 
in  earthly  gardens.  Yet,  season  after  season,  their 


A  JULY  EVENING 


SOME   GARDEN   VICES 

hypnotized  purchaser,  lured  on  and  befuddled  by  his 
obsession,  buys  and  sows,  plants  and  digs,  and  waits 
in  tremulous  anticipation  for  the  consummation  so  con- 
fidently predicted  in  his  favorite  quarterly.  And  season 
after  season  the  unashamed  truth  looks  up  at  him  from  his 
carefully  tended  beds,  beautiful  in  its  own  way,  doubtless, 
but  what  a  different  way !  Where  is  the  gaudy  glory 
promised  by  the  shiny  page  ?  Where  the  immense 
spread  and  height  of  leaf  and  flower,  the  dahlias  reach- 
ing to  the  dining-room  windows,  the  moon-flower 
covering  the  entire  wall  of  the  house,  the  solid  bank  of 
yellow  poppies,  the  foot-long  spires  of  mignonette  ? 

Woe  upon  printed  deceit !  Instead  of  the  lush  growth 
of  branch  and  many-tinted  flower,  a  shy,  conservative 
bloom  rewards  your  expectations.  Many  of  the  dahlias 
have  elected  to  open  in  a  one-sided  manner,  as  though 
reluctant  to  leave  the  bud  for  the  full  ear;  the  moon- 
flower  has  devoted  most  of  its  length  to  the  ground, 
refusing  the  proffered  assistance  of  wire  netting  to  lift 
it  skyward — and  so  with  the  rest,  for,  oh  !  the  differ- 
ence between  nature  and  art. 

There  are  other  failings  to  which  the  amiable  among 
garden  folk  are  subject,  different  small  vices,  harmless 
enough,  it  may  be,  but  capable  of  arousing  extreme 
bitterness  of  soul  in  those  who  must  endure  their  con- 
sequences. Their  name,  indeed,  is  legion,  and  it  were 
an  impossible  task  to  enumerate  them  all.  But  a  few 
stand  out  with  a  certain  salience  and  merit  mention,  not 

157 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

so  much  with  the  hope  of  their  being  avoided,  for  they 
are  usually  incurable,  but  simply  as  more  or  less  in- 
teresting phases  of  human  weakness  or  depravity. 

There  is  the  man  who  believes  every  one  else  to  be 
as  hipped  as  he  himself  over  the  immature  processes  of 
his  garden,  and  who  routs  out  his  luckless  guest  in  the 
dim,  damp  hours  of  dawn  to  show  him  a  series  of  ut- 
terly uninteresting  squares  of  soil,  while  the  dew,  as  he 
expresses  it,  "is  still  pearling  each  leaf  and  flower." 
This  admiration  of  dew  is  a  disagreeable  trait  found  in 
many  otherwise  reasonable  gardeners,  and  is  capable 
of  leading  them  into  the  worst  excesses  of  early 
rising,  with  a  consequent  moving  forward  of  the  break- 
fast hour  that  necessitates  every  one  being  dressed  for 
the  day  by  half-past  six  at  the  latest. 

This  type  of  man  will  drag  you  out  through  the  wet 
grass,  and  balance  you  on  narrow,  slippery  paths  while 
he  points  out  minute  bits  of  green,  designating  them  by 
Latin  names  that  you  do  not  understand.  If  you  inad- 
vertently set  a  heel  on  some  absurd  two-leafed  driblet 
of  a  plant,  he  bounds  to  the  assistance  of  the  flattened 
seedling  with  a  shriek  of  dismay,  shouldering  you  into 
a  puddle  with  a  vicious  twist  of  the  shoulder.  Of  course 
you  apologize,  and  he  receives  the  apology;  but  at 
breakfast  he  is  gloomy,  and  when  your  hostess  inquires 
whether  you  didn't  find  the  garden  looking  very  promis- 
ing, he  replies,  with  a  palpably  forced  hilarity,  "Sam  's 
a  great  gardener,  he  is.  Managed  to  flatten  out  an 

158 


SOME   GARDEN  VICES 

entire  row  of  my  finest  delphiniums  with  one  stamp  of 
his  foot — gad,  what  a  foot!  " 

There  is  another  garden  criminal  whose  special  prey 
is  his  own  kind.  This  is  the  habitual  borrower,  the 
man  who  is  forever  coming  to  get  something  that  he 
has  either  lost,  neglected  to  buy,  or  broken.  Persons 
with  this  vice  have  been  known  actually  to  snatch  the 
lawn-mower,  the  spade,  or  the  hose  from  your  very 
grasp,  carting  them  over  to  their  own  place  with  a 
mumbled  ejaculation  that  they  will  return  it  in  "  no 
time."  Evidently  this  division  of  time  never  arrives  ; 
at  least,  if  you  want  your  tool,  you  must  go  for  it — to 
find  it  lying  out  in  the  sun  and  rain,  rusty,  forgotten. 
This  sort  of  man  will  sit  on  your  back  porch  and  study 
your  catalogues,  and  growl  because  you  don't  subscribe 
to  more.  He  will  ask  for  slips  and  plants,  hint  that 
his  pinks  and  snapdragons  have  disappointed  him,  and 
demand  a  bunch  of  yours — "  you  always  have  such 
luck."  Neither  walls  nor  hedges  will  keep  this  pest 
out,  nor  any  amount  of  denial  discourage  him.  Early 
and  late  you  may  hear  his  "  I  wonder  if  you  could  let 
me  have  — ,"  resounding  through  the  violated  peace 
of  a  garden  you  can  no  longer  call  your  own. 

The  selfish  gardener,  he  or  she  who  will  not  pick 
any  of  the  lovely  inhabitants  of  their  beds,  is  rarer,  is 
few  and  far  between,  but  does  exist.  These  go  along 
their  paths  with  snub-nosed  scissors  that  clip  the  dead 
blossoms  but  never  the  living  ones.  They  gloat  over 

159 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

the  perfect  blooms ;  but  no  pleading  eyes  or  outstretched 
hands  will  persuade  them  to  the  sacrifice  of  a  single 
flower.  And  their  garden,  howsoever  riotous  of  color 
and  sweet  odor,  has  a  shadow  upon  it,  a  chill  at  its 
heart  that  all  the  sunshine  in  the  world  cannot  quite 
dispel. 

But,  really,  most  garden  vices  are  absurd,  even  at- 
tractive failings,  at  which  you  can  afford  to  smile  how- 
ever you  may  suffer  by  them.  Gardeners  are  usually 
gentle  folk,  a  little  queer,  possibly,  a  bit  given  to 
unusual  hours  and  odd  enthusiasms,  and  rather  care- 
less of  more  important  matters — such  as  Wall  Street 
and  ocean  travel — but  harmless  after  all,  and  even  in 
their  worst  moments  easy  to  placate  with  a  package 
of  seeds  or  a  few  roots.  Their  most  obsessing  sin, 
perhaps,  is  proselyting,  and  a  narrowness  of  view  that 
divides  the  world,  for  them,  into  simply  two  classes, 
the  gardening  and  the  non-gardening.  But,  with  all 
their  faults,  they  are  a  lovable  class,  and  they  are  in- 
veterately  happy. 


160 


GARDENS  IN  LITERATURE 


AN  ENGLISH  GARDEN 

BY    SIR   WILLIAM    MASON    (1772) 

But  swift,  with  willing  aid,  her  glittering  green 
Shall  England's  Laurel  bring ;  swift  shall  she  spread 
Her  broad-leafed  shade,  and  float  it  fair,  and  wide, 
Proud  to  be  called  an  inmate  of  the  soil.  .  .  . 
Nor  are  the  plants  which  England  calls  her  own 
Few,  or  unlovely,  that,  with  Laurel  joined, 
And  kindred  foliage  of  perennial  green, 
Will  form  a  close-knit  curtain.     Shrubs  there  are 
Of  bolder  growth,  that,  at  the  Spring's  first  call, 
Burst  forth  in  blossomed  fragrance.     Lilacs  robed 
In  snow-white  innocence  or  purple  pride, 
The  sweet  Syringa,  yielding  but  in  scent 
To  the  rich  Orange,  or  the  Woodbine  wild 
That  loves  to  hang  on  barren  boughs  remote 
Her  wreaths  of  flowery  perfume.     These  beside 
Myriads,  that  here  the  Muse  neglects  to  name, 
Will  add  a  vernal  lustre  to  the  veil. 


'WITHIN  HIGH  WALLS  AND  JEALOUS  HEDGES." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
GARDENS  IN  LITERATURE 

THERE  are  gardens  that  owe  their  sole  existence 
to  the  pages  of  a  book,  and  which  you  enter, 
not  by  unlatching  a  gate  or  following  a  path,  but 
by  the  simple  expedient  of  opening  an  attractive  volume 
and  traveling  along  lines  of  print.  Gardens,  these,  that 
are  free  to  every  one,  and  yet  more  inviolably  secluded 
than  the  most  solitary  place  within  high  walls  and  jealous 
hedges;  gardens  in  which  you  walk  alone,  safe  from 
invasion  by  any  one  alien  to  your  mood  or  unknown  to 
your  desire,  and  this  though  thousands  may  be  treading 
the  identical  green  alley  you  are  at  the  moment  following, 
or  stooping  to  admire  the  same  pale  rose  or  glowing 


of  these  gardens  in  print  are  very  old  indeed, 
others  but  freshly  planted.  Among  the  oldest  many  are 
expressed  in  verse  ;  for  as  they  grow  more  modern  both 
the  outdoor  and  the  book  gardens  tend  toward  a  greater 
freedom  than  measure  and  rhyme  allow,  the  former 
assuming  a  more  natural  habit  and  departing  from  a 
fixed  symmetry  that  insisted  on  doubling  every  path, 

165 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

grotto,  flower-knot,  and  fountain,  and  the  latter  making 
use  of  the  vernacular  with  all  the  liberty  of  a  man  at  his 
ease. 

Bacon  is  among  the  first  who  presents  us  with  a  prose 
garden,  setting  forth  his  ideas  on  the  subject  with 
that  precision  and  careful  squaring  of  corners,  that  at- 
tention to  detail  so  dear  to  his  heart,  both  the  garden  and 
himself  being  decidedly  formal.  For  even  in  the  wilder- 
ness, or  desert,  as  he  calls  it,  which  he  includes,  to  be 
sure,  being  a  man  of  too  great  a  spirit  not  to  realize 
both  its  charm  and  its  value,  one  is  conscious  of  a  severe 
control.  He  begins  by  stating  the  planting  of  a  garden 
to  be  the  purest  of  human  pleasures  and  the  final  product 
of  civilization,  and  he  says  furthermore: — 

"I  do  hold  it,  in  the  royal  ordering  of  gardens,  there 
ought  to  be  a  garden  for  all  the  months  of  the  year ;  in 
which,  severally,  things  of  beauty  may  be  there  in  season." 
After  enumerating  many  shrubs  and  flowers  fit  to  plant 
in  such  a  garden,  where,  "  if  you  will,  you  may  have  the 
Golden  Age  again,  and  a  spring  all  the  year  long,"  and 
discoursing  delightfully  of  fragrant  blossoms  — ' '  because 
the  breath  of  flowers  is  far  sweeter  in  the  air  (where  it 
comes  and  goes  like  the  warbling  of  music)  than  in  the 
hand,"  he  shapes  his  garden  for  you  to  see. 

"The  garden  is  best  to  be  square,  encompassed  on  all 
four  sides  with  a  stately  arched  hedge  .  .  .  this  hedge  I 
intend  to  be  set  upon  a  bank,  not  steep,  but  gently  slope, 
of  some  six  foot,  set  all  with  flowers  ...  I  would  also 

166 


TERRACES  AND  POOLS  IN  A  PERSIAN   GARDEN' 


GARDENS   IN   LITERATURE 

have  the  alleys  spacious  and  fair.  ...  I  wish  also,  in  the 
very  middle,  a  fair  mount,  with  three  ascents  and  alleys, 
enough  for  four  to  walk  abreast.  .  .  .  For  fountains,  they 
are  a  great  beauty  and  refreshment ;  but  pools  mar  all, 
and  make  the  garden  unwholesome,  and  full  of  flies  and 
frogs." 

This  garden  was  to  be  divided  into  three  portions,  "a 
green  in  the  entrance,  a  heath,  or  desert,  in  the  going 
forth,  and  the  main  garden  in  the  midst,  besides  alleys 
on  both  sides."  Nothing,  he  tells  us,  is  more  pleasant 
to  the  eye  than  green  grass  kept  finely  shorn.  And  as 
for  the  heath,  he  would  wish  that  "  framed,  as  much  as 
may  be,  to  a  natural  wildness.  Trees,  I  would  have 
none  in  it,  but  some  thickets  made  only  of  sweet-briar 
and  honeysuckle  and  some  wild  vine  amongst ;  and  the 
ground  set  with  violets,  strawberries,  and  primroses,  for 
these  are  sweet  and  prosper  in  the  shade." 

A  sweet  place  enough,  stately  and  spacious,  full  of 
English  posies  and  safeguarded  from  inroad  by  those 
tall  arched  hedges,  all  bespeaking  an  Elizabethan 
magnificence. 

Some  fifty  years  later  Sir  William  Temple  wrote  his 
delightful  book  on  the  gardens  of  Epicurus,  as  well  as 
many  others,  all  over  the  then  known  world.  But  it  is 
when  he  comes  home  again  that  he  gives  his  most 
charming  picture,  and  falls  into  his  chiefest  rhapsody. 

"But  after  much  Ramble  into  Ancient  Times  and 
Remote  Places,  to  return  Home  and  consider  the  Way 

169 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

and  Humour  of  our  Gardening  in  England,  which  seem 
to  have  grown  into  some  Vogue,  and  to  have  been  so 
mightily  improved  in  Three  or  Four  and  Twenty  Years 
of  His  Majesty's  reign,  that  perhaps  few  countries  are 
before  us ;  either  in  the  elegance  of  our  Gardens  or  the 
number  of  our  Plants.  .  .  .  The  most  perfect  Figure  of  a 
Garden  that  ever  I  saw  either  at  Home  or  Abroad  was 
that  of  Moon-Park  in  Hertfordshire ;  it  was  made  by  the 
Countess  of  Bedford,  esteemed  among  the  greatest  Wits 
of  her  time  and  celebrated  by  Doctor  Donne."  His 
Majesty  was  William  III,  with  whom  Temple  was  on  the 
most  friendly  terms ;  and  the  doctor  is  the  poet  whose 
tuneful  numbers  have  beautifully  expressed  both  his 
admiration  for  the  countess  and  her  garden.  Sir  William 
continues  his  praise  of  the  latter  as  follows : — 

"  Because  I  take  the  Garden  I  have  named  to  have 
been  in  all  kinds  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect,  at 
least  in  the  Figure  and  Disposition,  that  I  have  ever 
seen,  I  will  describe  it.  ...  It  lies  upon  the  side 
of  a  Hill,  but  not  very  steep.  The  length  of  the 
House,  where  the  best  Rooms,  and  of  most  use  and 
pleasure  are,  lies  upon  the  breadth  of  the  Garden,  and 
the  great  Parlour  opens  upon  the  middle  of  a  Terras 
Gravel-walk  that  lies  even  with  it,  and  which  may  be 
as  I  remember  about  three  hundred  Paces  long,  and 
broad  in  Proportion,  the  Border  set  with  Standard 
Laurels,  and  at  great  distances,  which  have  the  Beauty 
of  Orange-Trees  out  of  Flower  and  Fruit;  from  this 

170 


GARDENS   IN  LITERATURE 

Walk  are  three  Descents  by  many  stone  Steps  in  the 
middle,  and  at  each  end,  into  a  very  large  Parterre. 
This  is  divided  into  Quarters  by  Gravel-walks,  and 
adorned  by  two  Fountains  and  eight  Statues;  at  the 
end  of  the  Terras-walk  are  two  Summer-Houses,  and 
the  sides  of  the  Parterres  are  ranged  with  two  large 
Cloisters,  open  to  the  Garden,  upon  Arches  of  Stone 
.  .  .  paved  with  Stone,  and  designed  for  Walks  of 
Shade,  there  being  none  other  .  .  .  from  the  middle 
of  this  Parterre  is  a  Descent  of  many  Steps  flying 
on  each  side  of  a  Grotto  that  lies  between  them,  into 
the  lower  Garden,  which  is  all  Fruit-Trees  ranged 
about  the  several  Quarters  of  a  Wilderness  which  is 
very  shady;  the  Walks  here  are  all  green,  the  Grotto 
embellished  with  Figures  of  Shell-Rockwork,  Foun- 
tains, and  Water-works  .  .  .  very  wild,  shady,  and 
adorned.  .  .  .  The  sweetest  Place,  I  think,  that  I 
have  seen  in  all  my  Life  .  .  .  the  remembrance  of 
what  it  is  too  pleasant  ever  to  forget.  ..." 

There  is  more  in  the  same  vein;  of  terraces  floored 
with  lead  and  stone,  and  other  odd  contrivances,  little 
fitting  with  our  conception  of  a  garden,  but  very  allur- 
ing and  delightful  as  the  old  baronet  speaks  of  them.  A 
hundred  years  later  we  get  a  totally  different  impression, 
when  Hazlitt  bursts  forth  in  praise  of  certain  Tea- 
Gardens  in  Walworth,  the  which  he  knew  in  childhood : 

"  I  see  the  beds  of  larkspur  with  purple  eyes,"  he 
cries,  "tall  hollyhocks,  red  and  yellow;  the  broad  sun- 

173 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

flowers  caked  in  gold,  with  bees  buzzing  round  them; 
a  wilderness  of  pinks  and  hot-glowing  peonies ;  poppies 
run  to  seed,  the  sugared  lily,  and  faint  mignonette. 

And  before  Hazlitt  comes  Horace  Walpole,  upholding 
a  "Natural  Taste  in  Gardens,"  and  ridiculing  the  geo- 
metrical designs  that  had  so  inspired  the  admiration 
of  Temple.  "The  compass  and  square,"  he  says, 
"were  of  more  use  in  plantation  than  the  nursery- 
man. The  measured  walk,  the  quincunx,  and  the 
etoile  imposed  their  .unsatisfying  sceneries  on  our 
royal  and  noble  gardens.  Trees  were  headed,  and 
their  sides  pared  away;  many  French  groves  seem 
green  chests  set  upon  poles.  Seats  of  marble,  arbours, 
and  summer-houses  terminated  every  vista,  and  sym- 
metry, even  where  the  space  was  too  large  to  permit 
its  being  remarked  at  one  view,  was  an  essential  .  .  . 
knots  of  flowers  were  more  defensible,  subjected  to  the 
same  regularity.  '  Leisure,'  as  Milton  expressed  it, — 

...   In  trim  Gardens  took  his  pleasure  ! 

In  the  gardens  of  Marshal  de  Biron  at  Paris,  consisting 
of  fourteen  acres,  every  walk  is  buttoned  on  each  side 
with  flower  pots,  which  succeed  in  their  -seasons. 
When  I  saw  it,  there  were  nine  thousand  pots  of 
Asters.  ..." 

Looked  at  through  print,  those  measured  walks  but- 
toned by  flower-pots,  the  trim  hedges  and  green  chests 


GARDENS   IN   LITERATURE 

set  on  poles,  and  knots  of  flowers  in  regular  display, 
seem  quaintly  attractive  and  most  fitting  with  the 
dress  and  manners  of  their  day;  just  as  the  conscious 
wildwood  tangle  of  the  eighteenth-century  garden 
suited  the  sentimental  artificiality  and  Rousseau- 
simplicity  that  masqueraded  in  a  silk  and  satin  home- 
spun. 

In  our  own  day,  or  but  little  removed  from  it,  a  gar- 
den now  only  to  be  seen  in  the  pages  of  a  book  is  that 
described  in  E.  V.  B.'s  "Days  and  Hours  in  a  Gar- 
den." The  foundation  of  this  place  was  sufficiently 
ancient,  having  been  known  to  Evelyn,  in  whose 
writings  it  finds  an  appreciative  mention,  but  when  the 
Boyles  came  into  possession,  all  that  was  left  of  the  old 
garden  were  "two  symmetrically  planted  groups  of 
elms  in  the  park  field  ...  a  square  lawn  laid  out 
in  flower  beds  ...  a  broad  terrace  walk,  old  pink 
walls  with  stone  balls  on  the  corners,  two  or  three 
wrought-iron  gates  in  the  wrong  places  .  .  .  with  a 
few  pleasant  trees." 

Month  by  month  we  see  the  garden  change,  increase 
in  beauty:  "Close-trimmed  yew  hedges  eight  feet  six 
inches  high  and  three  feet  through  .  .  .  yews  cut 
in  pyramids  and  buttresses  against  the  walls,  and 
yews  in  every  stage  of  natural  growth  .  .  .  borders 
filled  with  the  dearest  old-fashioned  plants.  .  .  .  In- 
stead of  the  stable-yard  turf  and  straight  walks  and 
a  sun-dial  and  a  parterre  .  .  .  green  walks  between 

I7S 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

yew  hedges,  and  flower  borders.  Beech  hedges, 
and  a  long  green  tunnel  .  .  .  nooks  and  corners 
and  a  grand,  well-shaded  tennis  lawn,  and,  crown 
of  all,  the  'Fantaisie,'  .  .  .  where  all  my  favorite 
flowers  grow  in  wild  profusion.  .  .  ." 

Through  the  changing  seasons  we  are  led  along  the 
green  paths  and  by  the  borders  of  this  gracious  garden, 
and  watch  each  fresh  addition  and  new  blooming  plant 
— a  place  of  continual  enjoyment,  secure  of  sunshine 
through  even  the  wildest  of  winter  nights. 

There  are  other  gardens  in  literature,  built  up  entirely 
from  fantasy  and  dream.  Such  an  one  is  that  where 
Rappaccini's  Daughter  breathes  in  the  subtle  poisons 
with  which  she  is  so  fatally  charged.  Of  this  garden  we 
are  told:  "  There  was  the  ruin  of  a  marble  fountain  in 
the  center,  sculptured  with  rare  art,  but  so  wofully  shat- 
tered that  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the  original  design 
from  the  chaos  of  remaining  fragments.  The  water,  how- 
ever, continued  to  gush  and  sparkle  in  the  sunshine  as 
cheerfully  as  ever  ...  all  about  the  pool  into  which  the 
water  subsided  grew  various  plants,  that  seemed  to  re- 
quire a  plentiful  supply  of  moisture  for  the  nourishment 
of  gigantic  leaves,  and,  in  some  instances,  of  flowers 
gorgeously  magnificent.  There  was  one  shrub  in  partic- 
ular, set  in  a  marble  vase  in  the  midst  of  the  pool,  that 
bore  a  profusion  of  purple  blossoms,  each  of  which  had 
the  lustre  and  richness  of  a  gem  ;  and  the  whole  together 
made  a  show  so  resplendant  that  it  seemed  enough  to 


GARDENS   IN   LITERATURE 

illuminate  the  garden,  even  had  there  been  no  sunshine. 
Every  portion  of  the  soil  was  peopled  with  plants  and 
herbs,  which,  if  less  beautiful,  still  bore  tokens  of  assiduous 
care  .  .  .  some  were  placed  in  urns,  rich  with  old  carv- 
ing, and  others  in  common  garden  pots.  Some  crept 
serpent-like  along  the  ground  or  climbed  on  high,  using 
whatever  means  of  ascent  was  offered  them.  One  plant 
had  wreathed  itself  round  a  statue  of  Vertumnus,  which 
was  thus  quite  veiled  and  shrouded  with  a  drapery  of 
hanging  foliage,  so  happily  arranged  that  it  might  have 
served  a  sculptor  for  a  study." 

A  garden  of  death,  nevertheless,  this  gorgeous  con- 
summation of  color  and  poison,  as  poor  Beatrice  was  to 
discover. 

In  "  Sesame  and  Lilies,"  a  garden  blows  that  is,  of 
course,  no  garden,  having  nothing  to  do  with  "  hot-glow- 
ing peony"  or  "faint  mignonette,"  nor  with  green  alley 
or  fountain;  but  one  reads  the  essay  on  "  Queen's  Gar- 
dens "  with  much  the  same  quality  of  refreshment  as  is 
derived  from  the  actual  thing ;  for  it  is  a  spiritual  garden 
of  which  Ruskin  writes,  and  every  true  garden  appeals 
to  the  spirit  even  more  than  to  the  senses : 

"  The  perfect  loveliness  of  a  woman's  countenance  can 
only  consist  in  that  majestic  peace,  which  is  founded  in 
the  memory  of  happy  and  useful  years, —  full  of  sweet 
records  ;  and  with  the  joining  of  this  with  that  yet  more 
majestic  childishness,  which  is  still  full  of  change 
and  promise; — opening  always  —  modest  at  once  and 

179 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

bright,  with  the  hope  of  better  things  to  be  won,  and  to 
be  bestowed.  There  is  no  old  age  where  there  is  still 
that  promise  —  it  is  eternal  youth." 

And  the  following: — 

"  She  grows  as  a  flower  grows, —  she  will  wither  with- 
out sun ;  she  will  decay  in  her  sheath  as  the  hyacinth 
does,  if  you  do  not  give  her  air  enough;  she  may  fall,  and 
defile  her  head  in  dust  if  you  leave  her  without  help  at 
some  moments  of  her  life ;  but  you  cannot  fetter  her ;  she 
must  take  her  own  fair  form  and  way,  if  she  take  any 
...  to  be,  within  her  gates,  the  center  of  order,  the  balm 
of  distress,  the  mirror  of  beauty.  .  .  ." 

Gardens  and  gardening,  in  all  their  manifestations, 
have  from  time  immemorable  aroused  the  philosophic 
mind  to  pertinent  musings,  resembling  in  this  the  effect 
of  a  softly  glowing  woodfire  ;  and  it  might  be  interesting 
to  trace  the  varieties  of  reverie  excited  by  these  different 
means,  as  well  as  the  relative  value  of  the  conclusions 
attained  by  their  aid. 

"My  Summer  in  a  Garden,"  by  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  sums  up  a  number  of  moralizings  concerning 
men  and  things,  including  woman,  for  most  of  which  the 
garden  is  responsible ;  nor  are  they  any  the  less  wise  for 
being  steeped  in  his  warm  humor,  as  were  his  beans  and 
squashes  in  the  warm  ardor  of  the  sun.  Among  other 
matters  he  decides  that  "  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  not  what 
you  get  out  of  a  garden,  but  what  you  put  into  it  that  is 
the  most  remunerative.  What  is  a  man  ?  A  question 

1 80 


GARDENS   IN   LITERATURE 

frequently  asked,  and  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  satisfac- 
torily answered.  He  commonly  spends  his  seventy 
years,  if  so  many  are  given  him,  in  getting  ready  to 
enjoy  himself.  How  many  hours,  how  many  minutes, 
does  one  get  of  that  pure  content  which  is  happiness? 
I  do  not  mean  laziness,  which  is  always  discontent;  but 
that  serene  enjoyment,  in  which  all  the  natural  senses 
have  easy  play,  and  the  unnatural  ones  have  a  holiday. 
There  is  probably  nothing  which  has  so  tranquilizing  an 
effect,  and  leads  into  such  content,  as  gardening.  By 
gardening  I  do  not  mean  that  insane  desire  to  raise  veg- 
etables which  some  have,  but  the  philosophical  occupa- 
tion of  contact  with  the  earth,  and  companionship  with 
gently  growing  things  and  patient  processes ;  that  exer- 
cise which  soothes  the  spirit  and  developes  the  deltoid 
muscles.  .  .  .  In  half  an  hour  I  can  hoe  myself  right  away 
from  this  world,  as  we  commonly  see  it,  into  a  large 
place  .  .  .  the  mind  broods  like  a  hen  on  eggs  ...  I 
begin  to  know  what  the  joy  of  the  grapevine  is  in  run- 
ning up  the  trellis,  which  is  like  the  joy  of  a  squirrel  in 
running  up  a  tree  .  .  .  we  all  have  something  in  our 
nature  that  requires  contact  with  the  earth." 

A  good  deal  of  healthy  philosophy  was  developed  in 
that  German  garden  planted  by  Elizabeth  in  a  couple  of 
volumes  that  bear  a  lot  of  visiting,  rather  a  salty  and  vig- 
orous philosophy,  but  well  soaked  in  fun.  And  there  are 
countless  other  records  of  the  wisdom  found  in  the  culti- 
vation or  observation  of  growing  things  in  ordered  ways, 

181 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

from  Omar's  Persian  "  Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about 
us  .  .  ."  to  the  sage  reflections  of  a  "  Commuter's  Wife." 

Unlike  any  other  garden  in  any  other  book  is  the  one 
told  of  in  Barrie's  "  Little  White  Bird,"  where  one  finds 
not  only  such  astonishing  things  as  the  "Hump"  and 
the  "Baby's  Palace,"  and  the  wonderful  map  with 
Round  Pond  in  the  center,  but  one's  own  childhood,  mi- 
raculously alive  and  merry,  hardly  a  stranger  and  more 
beautiful  than  one  would  have  believed.  Other  magic 
gardens  there  are,  in  Arabian  tales  and  fairy  stories,  all 
of  them  joyful  places  to  know  and  to  visit;  but  the  last 
garden  we  will  enter  is  a  compromise  between  magic  and 
reality,  being  that  one  made  by  Count  Anteoni  on  the  edge 
of  the  Sahara,  where  Domine  went  to  live  with  her 
child  after  her  love  story  was  finished,  as  is  told  in 
"The  Garden  of  Allah." 

"  She  stood  on  a  great  expanse  of  newly  raked  smooth 
sand,  rising  in  a  very  gentle  slope  to  a  gigantic  hedge  of 
carefully  trimmed  evergreens,  which  projected  at  the  top, 
forming  a  roof  and  casting  a  pleasant  shade  upon  the 
ground.  At  intervals  white  benches  were  placed  under 
this  hedge  .  .  .  there  were  masses  of  trees  to  the  left, 
where  a  little  raised  sand-path  with  flattened,  sloping 
sides  wound  away  into  a  maze  of  shadows  diapered  with 
gold  .  .  .  behind  the  evergreen  hedge  she  heard  the 
liquid  bubbling  of  a  hidden  water-fall,  and  when  she  had 
left  the  untempered  sunshine  behind  her  this  murmur 
grew  louder.  It  seemed  as  if  the  green  gloom  in  which 

182 


'THE  GOLDEN  DREAM  BEYOND." 


*tntT  1 
v  storii 


the  left 


this  mm 


i 


GARDENS   IN   LITERATURE 

she  walked  acted  as  a  sounding  board  to  this  delicious 
voice.  The  little  path  wound  on  and  on  between  two 
running  rills  of  water,  which  slipped  incessantly  away 
underthe  broad  and  yellow-tipped  leaves  of  dwarf  palms, 
making  a  music  so  faint  that  it  was  more  like  a  remem- 
bered sound  in  the  mind  than  one  which  slid  upon  the  ear. 
On  either  hand  towered  a  jungle  of  trees  brought  to  this 
home  in  the  desert  from  all  parts  of  the  world  .  .  . 
thickets  of  scarlet  geranium  flamed  in  the  twilight  The 
hybiscus  lifted  languidly  its  frail  and  rosy  cup,  and  the 
red-gold  oranges  gleamed  amid  leaves  that  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  polished  by  an  attentive  fairy .  .  .  .  Under 
the  trees  the  sand  was  yellow,  of  a  shade  so  voluptu- 
ously beautiful  that  she  longed  to  touch  it  with  her  bare 
feet.  .  .  .  Never  before  had  she  fully  understood  the  en- 
chantment of  green  .  .  .  rough,  furry  green  of  geranium 
leaves,  silver  green  of  olives,  black  green  of  distant  palms 
from  which  the  sun  held  aloof,  faded  green  of  the  eucalyp- 
tus, rich,  emerald  green  of  fan-shaped,  sunlit  palms,  hot 
sultry  green  of  bamboos,  dull,  drowsy  green  of  mulberry- 
trees  and  brooding  chestnuts.  It  was  a  choir  of  colours 
in  one  colour,  like  a  choir  of  boys  all  with  treble  voices 
singing  in  the  sun. 

"Gold  flickered  everywhere,  weaving  patterns  of  en- 
chantment, quivering,  vital  patterns  of  burning  beauty. 
Down  the  narrow  branching  paths  that  led  to  inner  mys- 
teries the  light  ran  in  and  out,  peeping  between  the 
divided  leaves  of  plants,  gliding  over  the  slippery  edges 

185 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

of  the  palm  branches,  trembling  airily  where  the  papy- 
rus bent  its  antique  head,  dancing  among  the  big  blades 
of  sturdy  grass  that  sprouted  in  tufts  here  and  there, 
resting  languidly  upon  the  glistening  magnolias  that  were 
besieged  by  somnolent  bees.  All  the  greens  and  all  the 
golds  of  Creation  were  surely  met  together  in  this  pro- 
found retreat  to  prove  the  perfect  harmony  of  earth  with 
sun.  .  .  .  The  dream  of  this  garden  was  quick  with  a 
vague  and  yet  fierce  stirring  of  realities.  There  was  the 
murmuring  of  many  small  and  distant  voices,  like  the 
voices  of  innumerable  tiny  things  following  restless  activ- 
ities in  a  deep  forest  ...  a  brown  butterfly  flitted 
forward  and  vanished  into  the  golden  dream  beyond.  .  .  ." 


186 


GARDEN  GATES 


FROM 

THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE 

(CHAUCER) 

And  whan  I  had  a  whyle  goon, 

I  saugh  a  Gardin  right  anoon, 

Ful  long  and  brood,  and  everydel 

Enclos  it  was,  and  walled  wel, 

With  high  walles  embattailed  .  .  . 

Square  was  the  wall,  and  high  somdel ; 

Enclosed,  and  y-barred  wel, 

In  stede  of  hegge,  was  that  Gardin ; 

Com  never  shepherde  therin.  .  .  . 

Tho  gan  I  go  a  ful  gret  pas 

Envyroning  even  in  compas 

The  closing  of  the  square  wal, 

Til  that  I  found  a  wiket  smal 

So  shet,  that  I  ne  mighte  in  goon, 

And  other  entree  was  ther  noon  .  .  . 

Upon  this  dore  I  gan  to  smyte, 

That  was  so  fetys  and  so  lyte ; 

Til  that  the  dore  of  thilke  entree 

A  mayden  curteys  opened  me. 

And  forth,  without  wordes  mo, 

In  at  the  wiket  went  I  tho.  . 


"A  HINT  TO  THE  IMAGINATION  OF  EACH  PASSER-BY." 


CHAPTER  IX 
GARDEN  GATES 

JOHN  WORLIDGE,  writing  in  the  year  1675 
upon  the  "Art  of  Gardening,"  expresses  himself 
in  this  wise  as  regards  walls: — 

"  When  you  have  discovered  the  best  Land,  and 
pleased  yourself  with  the  compleatest  Form  you  can 
imagine  for  your  Garden;  yet  without  a  good  Fence 
to  preserve  it  from  several  evils  that  usually  annoy  it 
your  labor  is  but  lost." 

He  goes  on  to  say  that  the  Fence  may  be  made  of  a 
variety  of  materials,  but  that  of  all  the  use  of  brick  is 
best.  He  allows  a  stone  foundation  of  not  more  than 
a  foot  in  height,  and  favors  stone  pilasters  at  regular  in- 
tervals both  for  strength  and  appearance,  as  well  as 
other  ornamentations  such  as  niches,  blind  arches, 
copings,  and  deep  alcoves.  And  he  would  have  the 
gates  carefully  considered,  and  of  wrought-iron  where 
this  is  possible,  thus  permitting  enticing  glimpses  of  the 
beauties  they  guard. 

Many  of  England's  finest  places  were  designed  and 
laid  out  in  this  seventeenth  century,  a  century  that 

191 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

gave  birth  to  Inigo  Jones  and  to  Le  Notre.  Jones  de- 
signed many  of  the  splendid  gates  in  wrought-iron  that 
first  came  into  use  in  the  time  of  the  Stuarts,  besides 
the  cottages  and  summer-houses,  the  pavilions  and  ter- 
races with  their  flights  of  steps  that  remain  a  joy  to  this 
day.  Le  Notre's  influence  on  English  gardens  of  this 
period  is  marked,  and  it  is  supposed  that  he  accepted 
Charles  II's  invitation  to  come  to  London,  though  there 
is  no  direct  proof  of  this. 

Such  places  as  Hampton  Court,  Hatfield,  Packwood, 
and  Kew  are  full  of  fine  examples  of  the  best  seven- 
teenth-century taste.  The  famous  flower-pot  gates  at 
Hampton  Court  make  one  of  the  most  magnificent  en- 
trances to  a  great  place  that  can  be  imagined.  The 
high  brick  walls  with  their  stone  copings  curve  up  to 
the  immense  sculptured  stone  pillars,  surmounted  by 
cupids  holding  carved  baskets  overflowing  with  fruit 
and  flowers;  between  these  are  the  great  wooden 
doors  studded  with  iron,  and  over  the  wall  hang  many 
varieties  of  vines,  now  completely  hiding  it,  now  re- 
vealing the  pink  bricks  or  gray-white  pilasters.  An- 
other beautiful  gate  belonging  to  the  same  place  is  of 
wrought-iron  in  a  design  full  of  grace  and  strength, 
attained  by  a  semi-circular  flight  of  stone  steps  and 
hung  between  two  brick  pillars  topped  with  stone  balls. 
Even  more  perfect  is  Drayton,  with  its  pleached  alleys, 
its  brick  walls  infinitely  varied  and  yet  harmonious, 
its  grills  and  gates  of  wrought-iron,  its  niches,  busts, 

192 


GARDEN   GATES 

and  pilasters,  its  clipped  trees  rising  above  the  copings 
in  balls  and  obelisks,  its  amazing  yew  hedges  fifty  and 
sixty  feet  high,  one  behind  another,  arch  behind  arch, 
the  arches  topped  by  balls  and  points,  with  pediments 
over  some. 

Somewhat  different  is  the  wall  and  entrance  at  Mon- 
tecute,  in  Somersetshire,  stone  being  employed  here 
as  a  solid  foundation  upon  which  is  superimposed  a 
very  exquisite  balustrade  of  marble.  The  gates  are  of 
heavy  iron  bars,  very  tall  and  severe,  between  huge 
stone  posts  topped  by  hollow  circles.  The  vines, 
twining  in  and  out  of  the  columns,  wreathe  themselves 
in  adorable  festoons,  and  form  a  marvelous  harmony 
of  color  with  the  ancient  gray  stone. 

Brockenhurst,  among  many  fine  features,  has  a 
notable  entrance.  Behind  a  wrought-irori  gate  hung 
on  brick  pillars  of  noble  shape,  topped  by  marble  urns, 
a  wide  path  between  clipped  yews  leads  straight  to 
a  second  gate  whose  sturdy  pillars  as  well  as  the  large 
balls  that  crown  them,  are  completely  covered  by  ivy. 
Four  steps  mount  to  this  second  entrance,  and  some 
ten  feet  beyond  it  a  tall  smooth  hedge  blocks  further 
view.  Against  the  somber  darkness  of  this  hedge,  in  a 
slight  niche,  is  set  a  bust  upon  a  slender  column. 
Nothing  more  dignified  nor  more  charming  than  this 
double  entrance,  with  its  hint  of  mystery,  its  color  har- 
mony of  white  and  green  and  old  brick,  its  straight 
lines  and  sense  of  space,  can  be  thought  of;  it  com- 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

pletely  satisfies  the  demand  for  beauty^without  reveal- 
ing anything  of  the  garden  itself. 

The  variety  of  beauty  attained  both  in  England  and 
Scotland  by  modifications  of  these  brick  and  stone 
walls  with  wrought-iron  gates  is  truly  wonderful. 
Sometimes  the  family  arms  are  sculptured  on  the  pil- 
lars or  the  arch,  or  perhaps  an  ancient  quotation  or 
battle-cry.  Sometimes  a  Gothic  touch  is  given  by 
strange  animals  that  peer  down  upon  the  visitor,  or  by 
a  gate-house  whose  architecture  harmonizes  with  that 
of  the  main  building.  A  French  writer  in  the  early 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century  insists  particularly 
upon  this  point,  asserting  that  the  chief  entrance  to  the 
grounds  should  correspond  to  the  house  to  which  it 
belongs,  should  promise  it,  as  it  were.  Let  the  gate  to 
a  princely  place  be  princely,  he  says,  immense  and 
heavy,  or  springing  into  airy  arches  according  as  it  is 
a  castle  or  a  palace  to  whose  grounds  you  are  being 
admitted;  but  to  a  simple  cottage  garden  the  gate 
should  be  simple  too ;  a  swinging  lattice,  a  pierced 
door  painted  green,  or  a  turnstile  between  white  posts. 

The  English  castles  and  abbeys  built  before  the 
Stuart  reigns  possessed  no  such  gardens  as  distinguish 
the  later  places.  But  they  owned  their  closes  and  trim 
parterres,  within  their  massive  walls  and  behind  great 
battlemented  gate-houses,  ivy-buried,  turreted,  and 
pierced  by  low  arches.  Dunster  Castle,  built  under 
Henry  II,  has  such  an  entrance,  a  fine  building  of 

196 


GARDEN   GATES 

gray  stone  some  forty-five  feet  in  height,  with  four  tur- 
rets and  a  broad  arch  between  which  hang  the  same 
doors  of  massive  oak  bound  by  iron  bands  and  studded 
with  spikes  that  have  swung  on  their  gigantic  hinges 
since  the  castle  was  young.  Above  tower  mighty 
trees,  and  the  ivy  hangs  thick  over  the  old  pile ;  no 
better  gateway  to  the  grim  barony  could  have  been  de- 
signed. So,  too,  at  Warwick.  There  the  way  lies 
through  a  portcullised  door  and  over  a  moat,  the  arch 
at  once  heavy  and  fine. 

Beaulieu  Abbey  admits  you  through  a  lofty  and 
beautiful  archway  closed  by  wooden  doors  of  an  unbe- 
lievable solidity,  the  whole  built  into  the  great  gray 
wall  that  rises  above  clothed  in  its  evergreen  robe  of 
clambering  vine.  The  cloisters  are  a  series  of  exquisite 
arches  that  give  upon  the  garden  within. 

Then  there  is  the  Abbey  of  Battle,  founded  by 
William  the  Conqueror  as  a  thanksgiving  for  some 
one  of  his  victories.  Here,  too,  the  entrance  is  by  a 
huge  battlemented  arch  with  sturdy  turrets  and  a  grim 
gate-house  meant  for  defense  as  much  as  or  more  than 
for  welcome. 

In  Italy,  as  in  France  and  the  British  Isles,  wrought- 
iron  gates  and  high  walls  are  the  rule  for  the  outer 
boundary.  The  Italian  villas  usually  have  several 
gardens^  each  with  its  particular  and  appropriate  en- 
trance. Thus  the  Villa  Land  has  many  a  charming 
entrance  within  its  main  great  gates.  Some  lead  you 

197 


THE   LURE  OF  THE   GARDEN 

by  gently  sloping  ramps  between  green  hedges,  under 
arches  cut  in  the  greenery  and  marked  by  obelisks  of 
stone  or  huge  jars  of  terra-cotta.  Or  perhaps  you  fol- 
low a  curving  flight  of  steps  against  a  great  stone  wall 
that  partly  surrounds  a  fountain  full  of  broken  reflec- 
tions, up  to  a  terrace  crowded  with  roses,  stepping  into 
a  sudden  glory  of  light  and  color  from  the  cool  shadow, 
with  the  sound  of  falling  water  in  your  ears. 

The  Villa  Danti,  with  its  magnificent  view  over  the 
hills  of  Vallambrosa,  is  approached  through  lofty  iron 
gates  behind  which  are  two  carved  stone  flanges  stand- 
ing at  either  side  of  a  long  straight  drive  bordered  by 
splendid  cypresses,  black  against  the  sky.  After  pass- 
ing through  their  stern  shadow  and  slim  formality,  the 
garden,  in  its  clipped  and  fantastic  loveliness  and  the  riot 
of  its  color,  bursts  deliciously  on  the  view. 

The  Villa  Palmieri  has  many  gardens,  each  with  its 
studied  entrance.  The  coping  of  the  high  outer  wall  is 
finished  in  graceful  curves,  each  rise  topped  with  an  urn. 
A  massive  entrance  under  a  heavy  arch  makes  the  main 
gateway.  Within  are  others  manifold,  some  mere  open- 
ings in  the  hedges  marked  by  stone  pines  or  a  few  steps, 
some  proceeding  through  long  pergolas  floored  with  tiles 
and  adorned  by  old  busts  and  statues. 

The  Italians  loved  flights  of  steps  that  curved  out  of 
sight,  and  walls  of  varying  heights,  usually  built  of  stone 
with  niches  for  statues,  and  long  seats.  Fountains  often 
fall  down  these  walls.  They  loved  long  green  alleys 

198 


GARDEN   GATES 

too,  and  tall,  slender  pillars,  cypresses,  or  pines  to  mark 
the  gateway. 

On  the  island  of  Corfu  the  Empress  Elizabeth  of  Aus- 
tria built  a  great  palace  where  she  spent  much  of  her  time. 
It  has  a  wonderful  outlook  over  the  purple  Grecian  sea 
and  tawny  islands,  and  behind  it  lie  the  gardens,  a  floor 
higher  than  the  front  of  the  building.  These  are  attained 
from  within  through  the  main  hall  of  the  palace,  or  from 
without  by  a  flight  of  marble  steps  with  a  balustrade  of 
beautifully  carved  pillars,  at  whose  turnings  stand  statues. 
Beyond  the  topmost  steps  a  serpentine  path  adorned  by 
columns  wreathed  in  creepers  winds  and  winds  until  it 
achieves  an  airy  colonnade  from  which  the  gardens  drop 
away  in  three  terraces.  This  colonnade  extends  on  two 
sides,  with  statues  at  regular  intervals  before  it,  looking 
out  into  the  garden ;  a  formal  garden  of  date-  and  sago- 
palms  and  flaming  beds,  ordered  paths  and  rhythmic 
fountains,  where  marble  steps  and  temples  and  statues 
play  a  great  part,  white  against  a  myriad  tones  of  green, 
for  the  vines  have  flourished  everywhere. 

In  Spain  the  gardens  are  usually  inclosed  on  three 
sides  by  the  house  to  which  they  belong,  while  the  open 
side  has  a  wrought-iron  fence  with  an  arch  or  triple  arch 
of  stucco  surmounted  by  small  cupolas  for  the  entrance; 
such,  for  instance,  as  obtain  in  the  garden  of  the 
Alcazar  at  Seville.  In  Mexico  we  see  the  same 
characteristics;  while  often  the  only  entrance  is 
through  the  house,  as  in  the  old  Borda  gardens.  Here 

199 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

the  plain,  rather  desolate  hall  opens  on  a  colonnade  in 
whose  graceful  arches  hang  baskets  of  flowers  alterna- 
ting with  bird-cages  where  brilliant  parrakeets  or  sing- 
ing-birds disport  themselves,  according  to  the  way  of 
birds.  A  mass  of  roses  blooms  beyond,  through  which 
a  red-tiled  broad  path  descends  by  slow  degrees  toward 
the  main  portion  of  the  garden,  thickly  bowered  in  trees 
and  ending  in  an  artificial  lake  of  great  beauty.  This 
kind  of  entrance  makes  a  sort  of  frame  through  which 
the  garden  gleams  and  shimmers,  and  is  very  effective ; 
but  it  is  only  possible  where  it  is  private,  where  the  gar- 
den is  more  of  an  inner  court  appertaining  to  the  house 
and  not  exposed  to  the  public  gaze.  Gardens  like  this 
are  common  in  Persia,  the  flower-planted  space,  the  pool, 
the  tesselated  pavements  and  alleys  of  slender  trees  all 
visible  from  the  house  through  high  arches  on  slim  col- 
umns, but  entirely  guarded  from  outside  view  by  the 
building  itself  or  a  high,  forbidding  wall.  In  India,  too, 
the  wall  and  gate  are  usually  designed  with  the  idea  of 
entirely  hiding  the  garden  behind.  The  wall  is  com- 
monly pierced  with  a  high,  beautifully  decorated  arch, 
and  closely  shut  with  thick  wooden  doors ;  these  might 
open  into  a  desert  for  all  the  hint  of  green  growth  they 
permit  of  escaping. 

The  Japanese  fashion  is  utterly  different,  however. 
Here  the  garden  is  meant  to  be  looked  at;  it  is  a  glory 
to  be  shared  with  a  world  that  loves  it,  and  which,  pass- 
ing by  happily,  looks  but  never  intrudes,  experiencing 

200 


GARDEN   GATES 

simply  a  hushed  joy  over  the  quaint  and  careful  beauty. 
The  walls  therefor  are  low,  the  gates  of  wattled  bamboo 
or  interlaced  wood,  bold  in  form,  hung  between  high, 
straight  poles  and  topped  by  transverse  beams  inclining 
upward  at  the  ends.  Old  stone  or  bronze  lanterns  some- 
times mark  these  gates,  and  bright-flowering  trees  are 
planted  beside  them.  Often  the  entrance  is  over  a  bridge, 
and  at  times  the  garden  is  on  a  slight  hill  with  flights  of 
steps,  spanned  occasionally  by  arches,  leading  up  to  it. 
Now  and  then  pagodas  are  built  at  the  entrance  to  a  large 
garden,  or  the  gate  takes  the  form  of  a  thatched  cottage, 
or  is  oddly  carved,  fantastic,  or  brilliantly  lacquered. 

In  America  there  is  still  much  to  do  as  regards  both 
wall  and  gate.  One  charming  development  of  the 
wooden  fence  occasionally  met  with,  is  the  shingled  wall 
left  to  weather,  with  a  latticed  gate  between  higher  posts 
topped  by  balls  or  short  spires  and  left  gray  or  painted 
red  or  white  or  green,  according  to  the  prevailing  color 
of  the  house.  A  fence  of  this  sort  is  a  complete  protec- 
tion from  alien  observation,  while  the  gate  allows  just 
the  glimpse  that  gives  so  pretty  a  bit  of  information  re- 
garding the  hidden  Eden,  demurring  delightfully  against 
any  accusation  of  selfishness  which  might  be  hurled  at 
the  wall.  Vines  grow  well  on  these  shingled  fences,  and 
the  top  can  be  treated  in  a  variety  of  ways,  all  good. 

Several  New  England  gardens  have  very  high,  wattled 
fences  that  are  simple  and  picturesque  and  form  an  ex- 
cellent support  for  every  kind  of  creeper.  Wooden 

201 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

gates  are  the  best  in  these,  and  are  especially  lovely 
under  light  arches  twined  with  rose  or  honeysuckle,  or 
opening  into  arbors.  A  pretty  gateway  of  this  sort  in 
an  old  Long  Island  town  has  a  double-trellised  arch 
overgrown  with  clematis,  with  a  low,  white-and-green 
gate  and  two  seats  just  inside.  Three  stone  steps  lead 
up  beyond  these  seats  to  a  box-bordered  path. 

A  garden  gate  is  different  from  a  house  door,  and 
though  opposing  itself  to  undesired  intrusion,  it  should 
nevertheless  allow  something  of  what  it  guards  to  be 
seen;  a  flash  of  color,  a  curving  pathway,  a  vista  of 
well-planted  trees  or  sweep  of  lawn ;  a  hint  to  the  im- 
agination of  each  passer-by,  in  fact,  a  gift  of  beauty. 
For  since  nature  is  largely  responsible  for  a  garden,  a 
little  of  the  generosity  of  her  rains  and  sunlight  and 
secret  forces  should  emanate  from  every  true  garden. 
And  where  more  aptly  than  through  the  gate,  built  as 
it  is  to  let  the  favored  into  all  the  cherished  mysteries, 
should  this  gift  come  ?  Build  your  walls  to  keep  the 
world  away,  to  insure  you  peace  and  seclusion.  But 
let  your  gates  mitigate  this  necessary  severity.  Make 
them  beautiful  as  well  as  appropriate;  and  whether 
they  are  princely  or  humble,  be  content  to  allow  some 
of  your  garden's  loveliness  to  escape  through  them  to 
augment  the  general  delight  in  what  is  lovely; — if  it  be 
no  more  than  two  pots  of  geranium  or  begonia  set  upon 
the  posts,  as  is  the  fashion  in  some  French  villages,  or 
a  flowering  shrub  in  the  archway. 

202 


CLOISTERS,  MANY-ARCHED 


GARDEN   GATES 

Think  that  the  first  impression  is  given  by  your 
gate.  It  is  both  a  warning  and  a  promise,  an  index  to 
your  taste,  a  revelation  of  character.  At  once  yielding 
and  withholding,  it  stands  between  you  and  the  outer 
world,  obedient  to  your  desires.  You  should  treat  it 
with  consideration,  sparing  no  pains  to  make  it  fit  and 
fine. 


205 


GARDENS  PUBLIC  AND  BOTANICAL 


KEW  GARDENS 

ANONYMOUS 

So  sits,  enthroned  in  vegetable  pride, 
Imperial  Kew,  by  Thames's  glittering  side : 
Obedient  sails  from  realms  unfurrowed  bring 
For  her  the  unnamed  progeny  of  Spring. 

Delighted  Thames  through  tropic  umbrage  glides, 
And,  flowers  Antarctic  bending  o'er  his  tides, 
Drinks  the  new  tints,  the  sweets  unknown  inhales, 
And  calls  the  sons  of  science  to  his  vales. 
In  one  bright  point  admiring  Nature  eyes 
The  fruits  and  foliage  of  discordant  skies, 
Twines  the  gay  flow'ret  with  the  fragrant  bough, 
And  binds  the  wreath  round  George's  regal  brow. 

Sometimes,  retiring  from  the  public  weal, 
One  tranquil  hour  the  Royal  Partners  steal, 
Through  glades  exotic  pass  with  step  sublime, 
Or  mark  the  growth  of  Britain's  happier  clime. 


,ND 


Tisfc 


>y  K.  L. 


>  and  g; 
11  clots 


"IN  THE  GARDEN  A  BREATHING  FRAGRANCE.' 


CHAPTER  X 
GARDENS  PUBLIC  AND   BOTANICAL 

'  "W"  T  is  to  the  great  awakening  of  the  Middle  Ages,  with 
its  impetus  to  all  learning,  including  botany,  the 
JL  revival  of  medicinal  lore,  and  the  botanical  collec- 
tions fostered  by  the  new  learning,  rather  than  to  any 
inherent  love  of  the  cultivation  of  the  beautiful,  that  we 
may  trace  back  the  real  initiation  of  our  modern  pro- 
ficiency in  the  art  of  gardening." 

This  is  the  opinion  given  by  K.  L.  Davidson,  in  his 
comprehensive  little  book,  "Our  Gardens,"  a  popular 
review  of  English  gardens  and  gardening,  and  he  goes 
on  to  show  how  the  small  plots  planted  for  the  use  of 
scholars  and  doctors  with  herbs  and  simples,  with  no 
thought  whatever  of  flowers  for  their  own  sake,  gradu- 
ally developed  into  places  as  lovely  as  they  are  useful, 
collecting  into  themselves  the  trees  and  plants  and 
shrubs  of  the  world,  whether  of  economic  or  esthetic 
value,  and  experimenting  along  many  lines  of  use  and 
beauty. 

The  initial  efforts  of  man  are  always  concerned  with 
practical  results.  Beauty  is  an  afterthought,  though  it 

211 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

may  become  a  preponderating  one;  and  it  is  interesting 
to  look  back  through  the  centuries  upon  these  ele- 
mentary plantations  that  time  has  caused  to  blossom  so 
wonderfully,  these  beds  of  "  weeds"  that  have  turned 
to  lilies  and  roses. 

The  earliest  public  "physick  gardens"  are  discover- 
able during  the  sixteenth  century  in  various  parts  of 
Europe,  the  first  being  that  established  at  Padua  in 
1545,  for  the  benefit  of  students  at  the  university. 
Others  soon  followed  in  different  Italian  and  French 
towns,  all  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  plants  thought 
to  be  potent  either  as  medicine  or  poison. 

English  scholars  of  that  time  complained  bitterly 
that  they  were  forced  to  travel  so  far  to  study  even  the 
elements  of  botany ;  for  it  was  not  until  close  upon  a 
hundred  years  later  that  the  first  English  public  physic 
garden  was  made  possible,  by  the  gift,  in  1632,  from 
the  Earl  of  Danby,  of  a  tract  of  land  to  the  University 
of  Oxford.  This  prospective  garden  contained  some 
five  acres,  much  of  it  low  and  marshy,  lying  between 
the  water  walks  of  Magdalene  College  and  Christ 
Church,  close  to  the  bridge  over  the  Clerkwell.  It  was 
even  then  historic  ground,  being  the  site  of  an  ancient 
Jewish  burial-ground,  and  it  had  long  lain  neglected. 

Scholars  and  noblemen  interested  themselves  in  this 
garden,  much  labor  was  expended  upon  it,  and  it 
received  many  donations  of  plants  and  specimens,  as 
well  as  valuable  volumes  for  its  library.  It  soon  be- 

212 


POOLS  AND  SILENCES 


GARDENS   PUBLIC   AND   BOTANICAL 

came  renowned,  and  was  visited  by  botanists  from  dis- 
tant parts,  among  them  the  Swede  Linnaeus,  then  at 
the  beginning  of  his  fame. 

The  place  remains,  to  this  day,  little  altered.  The 
time-honored  yews,  once  clipped  into  the  shape  of 
guardian  giants,  still  watch  at  the  gate.  Many  a  plant 
brought  ages  since  from  alien  climes  has  become  accli- 
mated, and  gradually  wandered  from  the  borders  to  find 
congenial  support  in  the  crevices  of  the  old  walls,  or, 
farther  still,  abroad  in  the  country.  Such  has  been  the 
way  of  the  Oxford  ragwort,  now  common  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

It  is  a  subject  of  congratulation,  says  Mr.  Davidson, 
that  "the  first  English  physic  garden  has  been  per- 
mitted to  remain  with  all  its  old-world  associations  so 
far  unobliterated."  A  green  and  fragrant  spot,  it  con- 
tinues to  abide  within  the  shelter  of  the  university, 
seemingly  quite  as  immortal  as  the  gray  and  ivy-hung 
walls  of  the  buildings  that  surround  it. 

There  were,  nevertheless,  at  least  two  private  physic 
gardens  before  this  one  at  Oxford.  The  first  dates 
back  to  before  1596,  when  John  Gerarde,  "the  father 
of  English  herbalism,"  published  his  famous  "  Herball  " 
and  catalogue  of  the  plants  in  the  garden  adjoining  his 
house  in  Holborn.  There  is  an  amusing  story  told  of  a 
certain  Thomas  Johnson,  who  brought  out  an  "Herball" 
of  his  own,  in  which  he  derided  Gerarde's  work,  and 
proclaimed  interesting  discoveries  made  by  himself, 

215 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

among  them  the  finding  of  a  rare  "  peionie  "  growing 
wild  in  Kent.  This  discovery  aroused  considerable 
excitement,  until  it  was  proved  that  the  too-zealous 
botanist  had  himself  planted  what  later  he  was  to  dis- 
cover. 

Of  a  different  stamp  from  Johnson  was  Tradescant, 
who  brought  out  a  revised  edition  of  Gerarde's  "Herb- 
all"  and  who  made  what  seems  to  have  been  the 
second  private  physic  garden  known  to  England  in  the 
year  1630.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  mind  and  intense 
application.  His  collection  of  natural  history  speci- 
mens went  to  Oxford  after  his  death.  As  for  the  gar- 
den, that  was  continued  for  a  while  by  his  son,  but  in 
1749,  Sir  William  Watson  notes  that  it  had  fallen  to 
ruin. 

Following  these  came  the  famous  Chelsea  Gardens, 
which  share  with  that  of  Oxford  the  distinction  of  being 
maintained  to  this  day.  These  gardens  were  made  by 
the  Society  of  Apothecaries,  but  just  when  they  took 
form  is  not  known.  The  first  official  mention  of  them 
in  the  minutes  of  the  society  is  in  1774,  when  certain 
members  proposed  building  a  wall  about  them  at  their 
own  expense.  They  had,  however,  been  in  existence 
long  before  this.  Evelyn  notes  the  fact  of  a  "  Bot- 
anick  Garden"  in  Westminster  as  early  as  1658,  and 
twenty  years  later  this  garden  was  leased  by  the 
society,  probably  as  an  addition  to  their  own.  And  in 
1691,  there  is  a  description  by  the  president  of  the 

216 


GARDENS   PUBLIC   AND   BOTANICAL 

society  to  this  effect :  "  Chelsea  Physick  Garden  has 
great  variety  of  plants  both  in  and  out  of  greenhouses  : 
their  perennial  green  hedges,  and  rows  of  different 
coloured  herbs  are  very  pretty ;  so  are  the  banks  set 
with  shades  of  herbs  in  Irish  stitch-way." 

In  1820,  Henry  Field,  a  member  of  the  society,  pub- 
lished a  delightful  account  of  them.  They  continue  in 
excellent  condition,  and  are  the  only  gardens  belonging 
to  a  society  that  have  been  kept  up  for  so  long  a  space 
of  time. 

The  finest  botanical  gardens  in  the  world  are  those 
at  Kew.  Their  history  is  not  uninteresting.  They 
first  come  into  notice  about  the  middle  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  as  the  property  of  a  Mr.  Bennett,  whose 
daughter  married  a  Lord  Capet,  taking  the  estates  with 
her.  Later  on,  the  astronomer  Molyneux  married 
Elizabeth  Capet,  and  the  place  passed  to  him.  He  was 
secretary  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  later  George  II, 
whose  son,  Frederick,  father  of  George  III,  took  a 
great  fancy  to  Kew,  finally  leasing  it  from  the  Capet 
family  for  a  long  period.  He  immediately  began  to 
improve  the  grounds,  which  contained  some  two  hun- 
dred and  seventy  acres  of  a  charmingly  diversified 
character.  After  his  death  his  widow,  Princess  Augusta, 
continued  this  work  with  enthusiasm,  commissioning 
Sir  William  Chambers  to  build  temples,  summer- 
houses,  and  gates  that  still  delight  the  eye.  She  also 
commenced  the  exotic  department,  to  which  donations 

217 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

were  made  by  many  persons,  chief  among  them  that 
Duke  of  Argyle  called  the  "Tree-monger"  by  Horace 
Walpole  on  account  of  his  passion  for  fine  trees.  He 
sent  the  queen  a  large  number  of  rare  and  foreign  trees 
for  the  gardens. 

In  1759,  Aiton,  a  pupil  of  the  celebrated  Philip 
Miller  of  Chelsea  Gardens,  was  made  director.  "  A 
gentleman,"  says  an  old  record,  "  no  less  distinguished 
for  his  private  virtues  than  his  knowledge  of  plants, 
and  great  skill  in  cultivating  them."  What  he  did  with 
his  private  virtues  we  are  not  informed,  but  his  profes- 
sional abilities  "  quickly  secured  him  the  notice  of  the 
late  Sir  Joseph  Banks,  and  a  friendship  commenced 
which  subsisted  between  them  for  life." 

It  was  this  same  Sir  Joseph  who  made  a  voyage 
round  the  world,  and  sent  many  valuable  plants  and 
seeds  to  Kew. 

George  III  finally  purchased  the  estate,  continuing 
to  improve  it.  He  tore  down  Kew  House,  and  re- 
moved its  furniture  to  a  quaint  red  brick  mansion  of  a 
far  older  date,  which  had  once  been  owned  by  a  Sir 
Hugh  Portman,  "the  rich  gentleman  who  was  knighted 
by  Queen  Elizabeth."  This  house  was  afterward 
known  as  Kew  Palace,  and  it  was  here  that  Queen 
Charlotte  died.  Kew  now  became  the  favorite  royal 
suburban  residence,  and  daily  grew  more  beautiful. 

It  remained  a  possession  of  the  crown's,  being  main- 
tained by  funds  supplied  by  "  The  Board  of  Green 

218 


WHERE  THE  SHRUBBERY  REACHES  HIGH 


GARDENS   PUBLIC   AND   BOTANICAL 

Cloth,"  until  Queen  Victoria  relinquished  it,  "  for  the 
common  good,"  making  it  public  property.  It  has 
since  then  become  the  resort  for  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  visitors,  and  a  delight  to  lovers  of  beauty, 
besides  being  of  the  utmost  value  to  botanists,  agri- 
culturists, and  experimentalists. 

Sir  William  J.  Hooker,  director  for  many  years, 
published  the  first  Guide  to  the  gardens,  a  little  volume 
as  interesting  as  it  was  useful,  decorated  with  funny 
little  woodcuts,  and  prefaced  by  a  page  or  two  of 
Rules  and  Regulations  sufficiently  amusing. 

"  No  person  attired  other  than  respectably  can  be 
admitted. 

"It  might  scarcely  be  thought  needful  to  say,  that  all 
play,  leaping  over  the  beds,  and  running  are  prohibited. 
Yet  they  have  been  practised,  and  so  heedlessly  that 
very  serious  injuries  have  resulted  from  falls,  and 
grievously  scarred  faces  have  been  the  memento  of 
such  folly. 

"  It  is  requested  that  visitors  abstain  from  touching 
plants  and  flowers  ;  a  contrary  practice  can  only  lead 
to  the  suspicion,  perhaps  unfounded,  that  their  object  is 
to  abstract  a  flower  or  a  cutting,  which,  when  detected, 
must  be  followed  by  disgraceful  expulsion." 

He  concludes  that  much  more  might  be  said  on  these 
heads ;  but  asserts  that  the  director  "while  bearing  will- 
ing testimony  to  the  excellent  conduct  of  the  many 
thousands  who  visit  the  Gardens,  prefers  to  rely  on  the 

221 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

good  sense  and  honourable  feelings  of  the  visitors  .  .  . 
rather  than  to  multiply  restrictions  which  may  not  be 
absolutely  required."  His  expression  may  be  a  bit 
foggy,  but  the  underlying  idea  is  certainly  very  British 
and  sporting. 

Not  only  do  Kew  Gardens  present  the  most  exquisite 
landscape  effects,  and  bring  within  their  compass  the 
plant  life  of  the  entire  globe,  either  in  the  gigantic 
greenhouses  and  orangeries,  or  else  in  bed  and  border, 
on  hill-slope  and  valley  bottom,  or  along  the  banks  of 
"delighted  Thames,"  but  they  are  of  inestimable 
benefit  in  testing  the  best  methods  of  cultivation, 
in  studying  the  various  food  and  drink  plants,  the 
medicinal  herbs,  and  the  countless  trees  and  plants 
of  economic  value.  Here  the  good  is  separated  from 
the  bad,  the  haphazard  reduced  to  rule  of  thumb,  the 
diseases  of  plant  life  treated,  and  all  the  intricacies  of 
fertilization,  cutting,  slipping,  and  hebridizing  closely 
studied. 

Moreover,  here  you  may  see  the  various  forms  of 
formal  and  wild  gardening,  the  treatment  of  drives,  the 
planting  of  banks,  the  grouping  of  trees,  and  making  of 
lawns.  Landscape  gardening,  massing  of  color,  the 
possibilities  of  winter  planting,  all  receive  due  attention, 
each  season  showing  at  its  best  and  bravest.  The  best 
topiary  work,  the  use  of  the  pleached  alley,  the  trim- 
ming of  hedges;  what  may  not  be  learned  in  these 
wonderful  gardens? 

222 


GARDENS   PUBLIC    AND   BOTANICAL 

There  is  an  interesting  link  between  the  Botanical 
Garden  of  Missouri  and  Kew.  This  magnificent 
western  garden  was  the  gift  of  Henry  Shaw,  an  Eng- 
lishman from  Sheffield,  son  of  a  cutler  and  iron-worker 
who  came  to  America  to  push  his  fortunes.  The  boy 
soon  started  out  on  his  own  account,  with  a  small  stock 
of  merchandise,  and  after  visiting  various  cities,  finally 
settled  in  St.  Louis,  then,  1819,  no  more  than  a  small 
French  trading-post.  Here  he  prospered  exceedingly, 
and  in  twenty  years  had  made  a  fortune  equivalent  to  a 
million  nowadays.  Upon  this  he  retired. 

A  cool-headed,  cool-hearted  man,  with  neither  wife 
nor  intimate  friend,  he  spent  some  time  traveling  about 
Europe  and  England.  Finally,  at  Chatsworth,  where 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  was  for  so  long  a  prisoner,  the 
beautiful  gardens  inspired  him  with  the  desire  of  him- 
self creating  a  garden.  He  returned  to  St.  Louis,  and 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  life  and  the  greater  part  of 
his  fortune  in  the  delightful  labor.  He  soon  got  into, 
communication  with  Sir  W.  J.  Hooker,  of  Kew,  and 
received  from  him  the  most  enthusiastic  assistance  and 
advice ;  for  Hooker  not  only  greatly  improved  his  own 
charge,  but  was  constantly  on  the  alert  to  do  whatever 
lay  in  his  power  for  others,  and  this  garden  enterprise 
in  the  New  World  touched  him  closely. 

Shaw  left  the  gardens  to  the  State  on  his  death,  and 
they  have  been  carried  on  with  the  best  results  of 
beauty  and  of  scientific  use. 

223 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  public  gardens  in  the 
world  is  that  at  Wisley,  belonging  to  the  Royal  Horti- 
cultural Society.  It  was  first  laid  out  by  a  Mr.  Wilson, 
who  purchased  a  hillside  farm,  Oakwood,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  making  a  wild  garden  on  a  scope  hitherto  un- 
imagined.  By  degrees  he  converted  the  sixty  acres  of 
his  holding  into  a  perfect  wonderland  of  bloom.  Rare 
flowering  shrubs  and  trees  from  all  over  the  world  grew 
at  their  ease  among  the  native  woods  ;  along  the  water- 
courses the  finest  Oriental  irises  mingled  their  splendor 
with  simple  English  blossoms,  and  on  the  rocky  slopes, 
Alpine  flowers  crowded  joyously.  Rhododendrons 
from  the  Himalayas  and  azaleas  and  cherries  from 
Japan  were  equally  at  home,  while  water-plants,  bulbs, 
perennials,  and  climbers  appeared  to  follow  everywhere 
their  own  sweet  will. 

After  Wilson's  death,  Sir  Thomas  Hanbury  bought 
this  lovely  place  and  presented  it  to  the  society,  then 
tat  its  wits'  end  to  find  suitable  grounds  to  replace  those 
in  its  possession  at  Chiswick,  which  the  growing  en- 
croachment of  London  was  wiping  out  of  existence. 
Of  course,  some  changes  had  to  be  made  to  fit  the  gar- 
den for  the  uses  of  the  society,  but  these  were  not 
radical,  and  the  place  remains  uniquely  charming. 

There  are  many  botanical  gardens  in  the  tropics, 
chief  among  them,  probably,  being  those  situated  at 
Peradeniya,  in  the  center  of  Ceylon.  These  gardens 
are  beautifully  laid  out,  and  are  largely  employed  in 

224 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  GREEN 


GARDENS   PUBLIC   AND   BOTANICAL 

cultivating  the  many  tropical  trees  and  shrubs  of  eco- 
nomic value,  the  spices,  teas,  coffees,  and  chocolates,  the 
various  valuable  palms,  the  giant  bamboos,  the  gam- 
boge, and  indigo,  and  the  hardwood  trees.  The  gar- 
dens vary  considerably  in  soil  and  temperature,  lying 
partly  on  the  hills  and  partly  in  low,  marshy  ground, 
and  are  capable  of  producing  an  amazing  variety  of 
plants.  The  philosopher  Haeckel,  who  spent  four  days 
in  them,  asserted  that  four  months  of  hard  work  at 
home  would  not  have  given  him  the  same  results. 

On  the  decorative  side,  tropical  gardens  are  chiefly 
confined  to  blossoming  trees,  for  though  there  are 
some  splendid  lilies  and  creepers,  there  are  practically 
few  bedding  flowers.  But  the  trees  are  marvelous! 
There  is  the  flame-tree,  the  different  mimosas,  an 
Indian  tree  that  in  its  season  is  a  solid  mass  of  orange- 
colored  flowers,  and  all  the  genus  of  Brownea,  whose 
new  terminal  leaves  are  scarlet  or  rose,  and  hang 
pendant  at  the  ends  of  every  twig,  presenting  the  least 
possible  surface  to  the  heat  of  the  sun  while  too  young 
to  stand  his  full  fervor.  Then  the  hundreds  of  varieties 
of  palms  and  palmettos  and  the  so-called  pines,  the 
oranges  and  lemons  wrapped  in  fragrance,  the  poin- 
cianas.  A  real  glory  of  color  and  rank  growth. 

An  unexpected  and  altogether  delightful  garden 
is  the  public  one  at  Venice,  which  was  made  by 
Napoleon,  who  pulled  down  a  number  of  ancient 
palaces  and  churches  to  get  the  necessary  space.  His 

227 


THE   LURE   OF  THE   GARDEN 

stepson,  Eugene  de  Beauharnais,  carried  out  the  em- 
peror's plans  when  affairs  of  moment  called  the  latter 
away.  These  gardens  stretch  along  the  water's  edge 
in  half-tropic  loveliness,  the  paths  shaded  by  lindens, 
mimosas,  orange-  and  lemon-  and  magnolia-trees,  with 
palms  and  palmettos  boldly  placed.  There  is  a  charm- 
ing garden  cafe  with  music  every  afternoon,  there  are 
formal  flower  beds  and  green  grass,  and,  though  small, 
the  place  is  very  effective.  But  the  flower  spot  of 
Venice  is  the  Eden  Garden,  where  each  morning  the 
boats  come  to  the  water-gate  for  their  day's  supply  to 
be  sold  in  the  piazzas  and  calles.  The  flowers  are 
unbelievable  ;  solid  squares  of  bloom,  sheets  of  color. 
Surely  such  a  mass  of  flowers  was  never  collected  in  so 
small  a  space  elsewhere  on  earth.  The  roses,  hanging 
curtains,  loads  under  which  the  bushes  fairly  stagger, 
or  standards  cut  back  to  bring  a  single  marvelous 
blossom  to  perfection.  The  perfume  from  the  lily  beds 
makes  the  head  swim,  and  the  carnations  crowd  together 
drunk  with  their  own  loveliness. 

There  is  many  another  public  garden  that  might  be 
mentioned.  The  beautiful  ones  in  Paris  and  at  Ver- 
sailles ;  those  in  Berlin  and  Dresden,  and  many  here  in 
our  own  country,  though  we  have  not  yet  attained  the 
perfection  of  those  abroad,  being  naturally  many  years 
behind  the  oldest  and  the  finest.  But  these  are  enough 
to  show  how  deep  is  our  debt  to  the  early  "  physick 
garden  "  of  the  Middle  Ages,  with  its  small  collections 

228 


GARDENS   PUBLIC   AND   BOTANICAL 

of  plants  pored  over  by  dusty  scholars,  its  beds  in  the 
"  Irish  stitch-way,"  and  its  entire  lack  of  interest  in  the 
flower  for  the  flower's  sake.  The  fact  remains  that  not 
one  of  us  who  plants  a  bulb  or  a  cutting  but  owes  these 
ancient  botanists  thanks,  and  can  spend  a  pleasant  hour 
or  so  perusing  the  quaint  old  herbals  and  catalogues 
which  remain  as  witness  of  their  labor. 


229 


WINTER  WONDER 


THE  SNOW-STORM 

BY   RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;   the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry! 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door ; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage ;  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 

And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night- work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


A  WINTER  BOUQUET 


CHAPTER  XI 
WINTER  WONDER 

E'  no  one  lay  to  his  soul  the  comfortable  thought, 
as  he  turns  from  his  garden  in   the  late  fall 
toward    the   stone  and  iron  city,  that  a    gar- 
den amounts  to  precious  little  in  winter,  and  that  he 
will   miss  nothing  pleasant  in    deserting  the    familiar 
ways.     That,  truth  to  tell,   it  will  be    but  dank  and 
dreary  and  the  wind  never  'still,  and  that  to  tread  the 
snow-encumbered  paths  were  the  forlornest  method  of 
insuring  a  smart  attack  of  the  grippe. 

Let  him  go.  Duty  calls,  perhaps.  But  let  his  de- 
parture be  miserable,  a  tearing  of  the  heartstrings. 
For  a  garden  in  winter  is  a  lovely  thing,  a  place  of 
radiant  surprises,  an  exquisite  harmony  of  the  most 
delicate  color  tones,  and  a  revelation  of  the  superb 
drawing  of  tree  and  shrub,  the  marvel  of  their  intricate 
design,  the  power  and  spring  of  their  branches,  and  the 
wonderful  shadows  they  throw.  Far  into  December 
the  garden  is  still  green,  for  the  honeysuckles  will  not 
let  loose  their  leaves,  and  many  a  strong  perennial 
keeps  its  vigor  undaunted.  The  wise  planter,  also, 

235 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

sees  to  it  that  certain  bushes  with  crimson  or  golden 
twigs,  and  others  with  ivory  or  scarlet  berries,  shall 
burn  in  a  chill  fervor  the  winter  through.  A  holly 
hedge  is  finest  in  cold  weather,  its  glossy  leaves  and 
glowing  berries  all  the  richer  for  the  half-shrouding 
snow ;  while  arbor  vitae  spreads  its  frondy  branches 
with  all  of  summer's  energy,  still  yielding  a  pungent 
perfume  as  you  crush  the  stiff  leaflets  between  your 
fingers. 

The  little  box  borders  along  the  paths  are  curiously 
packed  with  snow,  the  cheery  little  branches  sticking 
up  indomitably.  And  what  a  quaint  primness  dis- 
tinguishes those  tender  shrubs  and  small  trees  which 
the  gardener,  with  careful  forethought,  has  protected 
from  the  frost  in  thick  swathings  of  brown  and  yellow 
straw. 

In  the  days  of  storm  there  is  a  wild  singing  in  the 
trees.  And  a  white  night  of  moonshine  and  snow  is 
worth  a  long  journey  to  see.  What  immaculate  purity, 
what  faint  grays  and  sharp  blacks,  and  what  an  invio- 
lable silence !  Nature  at  rest,  not  tired,  not  discour- 
aged, full  of  subtle  life,  at  peace  under  the  blanket  of 
snow. 

Now  and  then,  befalling  like  a  spell,  a  sudden 
wizardry,  winter  achieves  its  greatest  miracle  of 
beauty.  Various  circumstances  must  combine  in  order 
to  insure  its  perfection.  Occasionally  not  at  all,  but 
usually  once  or  twice  in  a  season,  this  miracle  is 

236 


WINTER  WONDER 

wrought.  After  a  night  of  sleet  and  storm,  drenching 
the  dark  world,  the  morning  dawns  fair,  windless,  and 
bitterly  cold. 

What  unbelievable,  magic  metamorphosis,  what 
labor  of  Aladdin's  lamp !  Your  garden  is  changed 
into  a  place  of  strung  jewels  and  diamond  lace  work. 
No  tiny  twig  but  bears  a  gem  on  its  tip,  no  tracery  of 
branch  or  hanging  vine  but  makes  a  mesh  of  intricate, 
glittering  glory,  on  which  the  sunbeams  dance  their 
wildest  saraband.  Gleams  of  violet,  rose,  green, 
and  gold  flash  and  vanish  everywhere.  No  tree  but  is 
sheathed  in  shining  armor,  and  the  hedges  are  fantas- 
tically gorgeous  with  repousse  of  silver  and  chains  of 
burnished  steel,  while  the  eaves  of  the  summer-house 
are  hung  with  endless  icicles  of  different  lengths.  Each 
little  seed-cup  is  charged  to  the  brim  with  frozen  liquid, 
and  tiny,  glittering  tassels  swing  on  every  grass-stalk. 

Stand  where  the  sun  shines  through  a  canopy  of 
crystal  branches  and  look  about  you  at  the  miraculous 
garden,  in  its  robe  of  a  fairy  queen.  You  will  be 
tempted  to  think  it  even  more  beautiful  than  when 
June  tossed  her  lapful  of  roses  into  it.  How  blue  lie 
the  shadows  on  the  snow  yonder  under  the  shimmering 
spruces.  How  pellucidly  clear  and  immortally  fresh 
is  the  air,  full  of  diamond  flashings,  as  though  a 
myriad  tiny  star-sprites  were  fluttering  their  wings. 

It  is  intoxicating.  But,  more's  the  pity,  it  is  terrify- 
ing, too !  For,  should  a  wind  come  before  that  mag- 

237 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

nificent  mantle  of  ice  is  melted,  fearful  havoc  may  be 
wrought  in  the  garden  and  the  forest  As  it  is,  many 
a  slender  bough  or  delicate  shrub  is  too  heavy-laden 
under  its  splendor,  and  may  have  to  suffer  for  its  hour 
or  two  of  more  than  kingly  pomp.  Winter's  crown  is 
the  most  brilliant  set  upon  the  garden's  brow,  but  there 
is  danger  in  its  gem-weighted  beauty. 

So  you  pass  slowly  along  the  radiant  paths,  releas- 
ing the  fettered  plants  from  their  load  where  this  is 
possible.  The  sharp  crackle  of  the  frozen  snow  under 
your  feet,  and  the  tinkle  of  falling  ice  in  every  direction, 
make  a  keen  music  that  harmonizes  perfectly  with  the 
silver  panoply. 

Toward  sunset  a  deep  rose  kindles  in  the  sky,  flush- 
ing the  snow-fields.  A  flock  of  snow-birds  passes 
with  a  fluttering  of  wings,  and  the  sparrows  tweet- 
tweet  under  the  eaves  of  the  veranda,  seeking  shelter 
for  the  night.  High  up,  a  few  loose  golden  clouds  sail 
lightly,  presaging  a  wind.  But  a  wind  from  the 
south,  and  suddenly  you  realize  that  the  temperature 
has  already  changed,  is  softer,  milder. 

An  infinite  number  of  shadows  begin  playing  about 
in  the  garden,  purple,  gray,  and  dusky.  The  fountain 
all  day  has  looked  like  a  twisted  little  gnome  changed 
by  some  waving  wand  into  a  statuette  of  crystal. 
Now  it  suddenly  begins  to  murmur  and  complain,  and 
the  edges  begin  to  drip,  making  a  tender  crooning. 
The  snow  is  softer  underfoot,  and  each  moment  some 

238 


FOR  A  GARDEN  IX  WINTER  IS  A  LOVELY  THING- 


WINTER  WONDER 

branch  shakes  off  a  handful  of  its  radiant  robe,  that 
falls  with  a  crash  and  thud,  while  the  bough  springs 
up  into  place.  The  high  tree-tops  still  glitter  in  the 
western  light,  but  down  in  the  garden  the  purple 
shadows  have  run  close  together,  and  a  faint  mist 
begins  to  form  above  the  snow,  where  it  lies  like  a 
veil.  .  .  . 

Where  you  are  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  stay 
within  sight  of  your  garden  the  year  round,  you  will 
find  many  things  that  can  be  planted  to  enhance  the 
winter  beauty,  even  in  our  cold  climate.  In  England, 
particularly  in  the  south,  monthly  roses  have  a  flower 
or  two  as  late  as  January,  and  in  February  the  crocus 
lights  its  golden  lamps  and  the  snowdrop  swings  her 
bells. 

The  harmonies  of  green  possible  in  a  plantation  of 
firs  and  pines  prove  an  unending  joy.  In  Kentucky 
this  "  green  planting"  for  winter  has  attained  consider- 
able vogue.  A  flaming  note  is  lent  by  the  cardinal, 
and  the  snow-buried  evergreens,  the  tall  hedges,  and 
the  smooth  lawn-levels,  with  the  swift  crimson  passing 
of  the  brilliant  bird,  make  an  unforgetable  picture. 

Where  it  is  possible  to  have  a  greenhouse,  the  en- 
chantment of  slipping  from  the  biting  cold  into  the 
warm,  moist  atmosphere  laden  with  flower  perfumes 
and  that  mossy  fragrance  peculiar  to  conservatories,  is 
hard  to  overestimate.  There,  of  course,  you  can  culti- 
vate winter  roses  and  violets,  or  indulge  your  fantasy 

241 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

with  orchids  and  air-plants.  Best  of  all,  you  can  begin 
to  grow  your  annuals  while  without  winter  still  com- 
mands the  earth.  The  fascination  of  fooling  tiny 
seedlings  into  the  belief  that  spring  has  far  outpaced 
them  is  one  of  the  gardener's  most  pleasing  deceptions. 
Up  they  rush  in  a  panic,  sticking  their  little  leaves 
right  and  left  into  the  humid  atmosphere,  hurrying 
into  life  with  the  haste  of  children  rushing  out  to  play. 
And  then  those  earliest  days  of  the  real  spring, 
irretrievably  lost  to  you  unless  you  know  your  garden 
in  winter.  Those  extraordinary,  evanescent  impres- 
sions, spirit-like  in  their  impalpability,  but  unmistak- 
able as  the  voice  of  the  beloved.  It  is  impossible  to 
cry,  "  Lo,  here!"  or,  "  Lo,  there!"  There  is  no  pre- 
cise moment  upon  which  to  clap  a  word  or  lay  a  hand. 
But  on  a  sudden  morning  spring  has  come  into  your 
garden,  creation  is  hard  at  work,  the  burgeoning  trees 
and  imminent  flowers  press  on  the  consciousness  .  .  . 
and  winter  yields  to  her  immortal  sister  in  a  sun- 
illumined  shower. 


242 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  FUTURE 


THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN 

BY  ANDREW  MARVEL 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid  ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  cf  Repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men : 
You  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude.  .  .  . 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run : 
And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ! 


ouc 


'THIS  DELICIOUS  SOLITUDE." 


CHAPTER  XII 
POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  FUTURE 

A"  THOUGH  we  have,  as  yet,  no  gardens  com- 
parable to  the  best  in  England,  Italy,  or 
France,  and  though  in  the  matter  of  small 
gardens  we  are  also  woefully  behind  the  possibilities, 
yet  we  are  steadily  doing  better.  Bacon  said  that 
"men  come  to  build  stately  sooner  than  to  garden 
finely,  as  if  gardening  were  the  greater  perfection." 
At  the  time  he  wrote,  America  was  a  wilderness. 
During  the  centuries  following,  she  has  built  stately 
in  more  ways  than  one ;  now  the  time  approaches 
when  she  should  garden  finely.  Fortunately,  signs 
are  plentiful  that  she  has  begun  so  to  do. 

The  growing  tendency  to  live  in  the  country,  and  at 
least  to  spend  longer  and  longer  vacations  there  when 
city  life  for  a  part  of  the  year  seems  imperative,  has 
been  frequently  remarked  upon  during  the  past  few 
years.  The  automobile  is  supposed  to  be  partly  ac- 
countable, making  it  easy  for  persons  to  spend  a  large 
portion  of  each  day  in  town,  and  the  rest  on  their 
country  places ;  and  rapid  transit  of  one  sort  and  an- 

247 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

other,  and  of  varying  degrees  of  efficiency,  has  made 
of  the  suburbanite  an  ever-increasing  multitude.  As 
for  the  suburban  garden,  it  holds  delightful  potential- 
ities, more  than  a  few  having  already  been  realized. 

Moreover,  the  long  and  desperate  reign  of  ugliness 
is  waning,  and  scarcely  an  American  village,  town,  or 
city  but  is  bestirring  itself  in  the  sacred  cause  of  beauty. 
The  women's  clubs  and  municipal  committees  are 
doing  a  great  work  in  turning  waste  and  hideous  places 
into  little  parks,  public  gardens,  and  playgrounds. 
School  children  everywhere  are  being  taught  the  value 
of  order  and  loveliness  in  their  surroundings,  given 
opportunities  to  plant  and  cultivate  gardens  of  their 
own,  and  encouraged  to  influence  their  families  toward 
improving  the  home  yard  and  combining  for  the  public 
betterment  of  streets,  avenues,  and  squares. 

Straws  all  these,  but  blowing  decidedly  in  one  direc- 
tion. Not  a  tree  planted  in  a  city  street  that  is  not  an 
object-lesson,  creating  a  demand  for  others.  And  one 
back  yard  transformed  into  a  garden  begets  many  more 
of  its  kind.  Make  one  beautiful  place  in  a  town,  and 
a  hundred  will  follow  in  due  course.  People  are  ready 
for  the  hint! 

The  idea  of  seclusion  as  an  essential  part  of  a 
garden,  is  also  a  thing  of  slow,  but  sure,  growth. 
At  present  we  are  most  of  us  far  too  much  afraid  of 
walls,  too  fond  of  having  the  eye  of  the  world  on  our 
possessions,  too  careless  of  the  privacy  that  makes  a 

248 


POSSIBILITIES   OF   THE   FUTURE 

part  of  every  human  life ;  careless  of  maintaining  our 
own,  careless  of  invading  that  of  others. 

A  town  need  not  be  unlovely  nor  even  monotonous 
because  its  gardens  are  hidden.  On  the  contrary,  gar- 
den walls  and  gates,  as  a  previous  chapter  endeavored 
to  establish,  can  be  wonderfully  beautiful  and  various, 
assisting  successfully  in  making  the  streets  unique  and 
picturesque.  In  the  open  country,  hedges  and  fences 
not  too  easily  seen  through  are  sufficiently  protective,  and 
are  capable  of  adding  greatly  to  the  charm  of  country 
roads ;  while  no  town  of  considerable  size  should  be 
satisfied  until  it  possesses  well-planned  and  carefully 
kept  up  public  gardens. 

The  little  city  of  St.  George,  in  Bermuda,  is  an  ex- 
cellent example  of  the  beauty  to  be  attained  by  walled 
town  gardens.  The  quaint,  narrow  streets  run  be- 
tween walls  of  varying  height,  over  which  fall  the  flam- 
ing branches  of  hibiscus  or  the  long  purple  streamers 
of  bougainvillea.  And  everywhere  arched  or  pillared 
gateways  lend  sudden,  surprising  glimpses  of  the  de- 
lightful gardens  within  those  walls.  Now  and  again 
one  comes  upon  an  enchanting  court  separated  from 
the  street  by  charming  arches  and  paved  with  the  om- 
nipresent white  coral,  while  within,  a  tree  throws  its 
shade  over  narrow  beds  of  white  lilies  against  white 
walls,  or  the  intense  scarlets  of  geranium,  pomegranate, 
and  hibiscus  kindle  the  whole  to  radiance. 

No    arrangement    of    open    spaces    conventionally 

249 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

planted,  as  obtains  so  much  here  in  the  suburbs,  can 
ever  produce  the  imaginative  and  suggestive  loveliness 
to  be  gained  by  surrounding  the  gardens  with  walls. 
It  is  the  elusive,  the  half-revealed,  that  is  always  the 
more  alluring.  And  just  as  the  old  garden-makers 
insisted  that  no  garden  should  be  so  laid  out  or  planted 
as  to  be  visible  from  any  one  spot,  but  should  hide 
behind  hedges  and  boskets,  have  hidden  recesses  and 
paths  curving  out  of  sight,  so,  too,  the  .town  that  hints 
at  hidden,  lovely  places  removed  from  the  general  ob- 
servation, will  still  prove  the  more  beautiful,  though, 
nay,  because,  so  much  of  its  beauty  is  concealed. 

Many  American  places  upon  which  both  time  and 
money  have  been  spent  fail  in  another  essential,  that 
of  harmony.  Too  often  there  has  been  no  attempt 
made  at  suiting  the  house  to  the  grounds,  nor  any 
study  of  the  general  environment,  its  possibilities,  its 
drawbacks,  and  its  characteristic  quality  undertaken. 
Yet  harmony  alone  will  excuse  many  a  shortcoming. 
Nothing  exists  solely  for  itself,  and  in  making  a  country 
place,  the  closer  the  co-relation  between  the  house,  the 
garden,  and  the  surrounding  lay  of  the  land,  the  hap- 
pier the  result.  An  Italian  villa  with  formal  grounds 
set  in  the  middle  of  a  bleak  and  bare  New  England 
coast-line,  where  the  embattled  rocks  are  forever  fling- 
ing back  a  furious  sea,  will  never  create  in  the  beholder 
that  feeling  of  satisfaction  which  a  place,  perhaps  less 
lovely  in  itself,  but  belonging  more  intimately  with  its 

250 


POSSIBILITIES   OF   THE   FUTURE 

setting,  will  induce.  The  best  places  acknowledge  the 
fatherhood  of  the  country  about  them,  adapting  the 
natural  aspect  to  their  own  uses,  but  neither  ignoring 
nor  violating  it. 

It  is  only  when  the  people  at  large  take  to  doing 
anything  that  an  actual  vitality  ensues,  and,  therefore, 
the  most  encouraging  symptom  of  a  new  garden  era 
lies  in  the  general  interest  perceptible  in  many  direc- 
tions. There  are  the  numerous  and  successful  books 
and  magazines  of  a  technical  sort,  for  instance,  ad- 
dressed to  persons  whose  chief  asset  is  a  personal 
enthusiasm  for  improving  whatever  lies  at  hand  and  a 
readiness  to  undertake  the  labor  of  laying  out  and  culti- 
vating a  small  place  with  their  own  hands.  The  gar- 
den triumphant!  Delightful  thought.  It  is  this  same 
general  desire  that  has  long  existed  in  England,  and 
that  has  put  her  so  far  ahead  of  us  in  the  matter  of 
gardens.  Even  in  the  use  of  window  boxes,  the  Eng- 
lish towns  exceed  anything  done  here.  London,  dur- 
ing the  season,  looks  like  a  flower  garden  stood  on 
end,  so  ubiquitous  are  these  tiny  flower  beds.  The 
English  man  or  woman  must  have  flowers,  cannot  get 
along  without  them  where  there  is  the  least  chance  to 
make  them  grow.  And  precisely  at  the  moment  when 
an  Englishman  becomes  possessed  of  a  bit  of  ground, 
a  garden  begins  to  evolve. 

The  American  tendency  for  doing  everything  in  a 
hurry,  and  without  a  feeling  for  the  permanence  of 

253 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

what  is  accomplished,  is  perhaps  the  garden's  deadliest 
enemy.  You  cannot  hasten  nature  beyond  a  certain 
point,  and  a  large  part  of  a  garden's  charm  is  only  at- 
tained through  the  passage  of  time.  But  many  among 
us  do  not  stay  in  any  one  place  for  more  than  a  year  or 
two.  The  "step  lively"  of  the  trolley-car  conductor  is 
the  shibboleth  of  our  lives ;  here  to-day  and  gone  to- 
morrow. Quick  effects  and  quick  results  are  what  we 
want.  We  cannot  plant  for  ourselves,  and  why  should 
we  plant  for  others?  We  must  acquire  leisure  and 
stability,  and  the  desire  for  a  home  rather  than  a 
series  of  stepping-stones,  before  we  become  makers  of 
gardens. 

The  gardens  made  by  our  forefathers  bespeak  this 
lost  quality  of  repose,  a  quality  inherent  in  them  de- 
spite the  energy  with  which  they  confronted  and  sub- 
dued the  wilderness.  For  repose  by  no  means  excludes 
energy.  There  is  no  need  of  being  splendidly  null 
because  of  achieving  a  degree  of  serenity.  The  ability 
to  sit  still  and  wait  is  a  valuable  one;  for  much  most 
worth  while  in  our  life  must  either  be  awaited  or  else 
entirely  missed. 

As  this  realization  grows  in  us,  we  shall  become  not 
only  more  quiet,  but  more  simple.  We  need  to  strike 
a  balance,  to  learn  that  we  can  do  all  we  have  to  do, 
howsoever  strenuous  the  task,  and  yet  have  time 
enough  to  drop  it  all  out  of  our  minds  for  at  least  a 
part  of  each  day.  Instead  of  devoting  our  whole 

254 


POSSIBILITIES   OF   THE   FUTURE 

energy  to  getting  more,  we  shall  begin  to  set  about 
enjoying  what  we  already  have ;  and  the  feverish  pace 
of  our  pulses  will  drop  to  a  normal  and  healthier  beat. 

The  era  of  the  man  entirely  wrapped  up  in  his  busi- 
ness is  passing.  He  is,  after  all,  only  partly  a  man. 
Remove  him  from  his  daily  task,  his  office  seat,  and 
nothing  is  left  for  him  but  to  die,  to  stop  running,  like 
a  machine  whose  single  motive  power  has  ceased. 
The  young  man  of  to-day  is  more  concerned  in  giving 
his  faculties  free  play,  in  fulfilling  himself  in  as  many 
directions  as  possible.  He  may  be,  and  usually  is,  a 
specialist  so  far  as  his  work  is  in  question ;  but  he  does 
not  allow  his  work  to  swamp  him.  Art,  philosophy, 
and  play  enter  into  the  scheme  of  his  conception,  and 
he  is  likely  to  prove  a  far  better  citizen  than  his  father 
before  him,  as  well  as  a  happier  one. 

As  for  women,  their  wider  activities  nowadays  make 
them  the  more  desirous  of  a  contrasting  peace.  The 
number  of  women  earning  their  own  way  who  lay  aside 
something  with  the  object  of  eventually  owning  a  little 
place  in  the  country  is  surprisingly  large.  Women 
have  always  loved  gardens,  and  the  fact  that  they  are 
becoming  more  able  to  get  what  they  want  is  going  to 
put  many  a  woman  in  the  center  of  an  exquisitely 
tended  acre  or  two  who  would  formerly  have  been 
obliged  to  fret  her  soul  out  in  a  boarding-house,  or,  at 
the  best,  content  herself  with  sharing  the  home  of  a 
more  fortunate  sister.  Many  a  sweet  seaside  garden 

257 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   GARDEN 

or  terraced  hill-slope  around  a  tiny  bungalow  or  hidden 
spot  near  the  town  are  the  work  and  the  joy  of  single 
women.  Costing  little,  but  yielding  much,  these  oases 
are  charming  evidence  of  a  new  birth  in  garden  history, 
and  seem  destined  to  spread  all  over  the  continent, 
drawing  recruits  from  the  ranks  that  used  to  fill  the 
rocking-chairs  on  the  verandas  of  summer  hotels,  from 
the  idle  as  well  as  from  the  busy. 

So  it  is  that  those  of  us  who  particularly  love  gar- 
dens look  forward  comfortably  to  the  next  ten  or  fif- 
teen years  as  a  time  when  there  will  be  much  digging 
and  planting  and  training  up  of  vines.  Much  improve- 
ment, too,  in  garden  architecture,  and  the  gradual  sub- 
stitution of  taste  for  ostentation  in  the  estates  of  the 
wealthier  among  us.  The  day  is  not  far  off,  its  sun- 
shine is  already  upon  us,  when  each  suburban  house 
will  have  its  secret  garden,  whispering  over  the  wall 
or  through  the  gate  to  the  world  outside,  possibly 
joining  openly  with  the  general  scheme  in  front,  but 
keeping  somewhere  a  real  "  close "  planted  with  the 
finest  of  the  flowers  and  sheltered  from  all  but  the  most 
intimate.  An  hour  in  such  a  spot  is  filled  with  balm 
and  potent  for  the  refreshment  of  worn  bodies  and 
harassed  minds. 

Let  nobody  misprise  a  garden,  or  think  it  not  worth 
the  trouble  it  costs.  For  this  is  part  of  the  enchant- 
ment, that  the  very  trouble  becomes  delectable,  the 
pulling  of  weeds  as  keen  a  pleasure  as  cutting  roses, 

258 


POSSIBILITIES   OF   THE   FUTURE 

the  planning  of  a  new  bed,  the  setting  of  a  sun-dial,  or 
the  trimming  of  a  hedge  pleasures  so  intense  that  the 
mind  turns  to  them  from  the  dominion  of  the  city  desk 
or  the  giddy  center  of  the  social  whirl  with  a  longing 
not  to  be  quelled. 

Indeed,  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  inscribe  over  every 
garden  the  legend:  ''Whosoever  enters  here,  let  him 
beware.  For  he  shall  never  more  escape,  nor  be  free 
of  my  spell." 


259 


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